


Secret Santa

by chloespears (digitalworldbound), digitalworldbound



Category: Digimon - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Childhood Friends, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Developing Friendships, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Post-Digimon Adventure tri., Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secret Santa, there may even be some cute lil mistletoe kisses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2020-05-28 14:13:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19395814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/digitalworldbound/pseuds/chloespears, https://archiveofourown.org/users/digitalworldbound/pseuds/digitalworldbound
Summary: Three months after the death of Meicoomon, the twelve heroes promise to never become too busy for one another.In an effort to spend more time with everyone, Mimi plans a "Christmas Extravaganza" at the Yagami residence. Between tree decorating, old videos of the children, and hot cocoa, their true feelings begin to unearth themselves.Despite growing up together, the Chosen Children realize that they don't know each other as well as they thought.// (mentions of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder)





	1. Of Exclimation Points and Sweat

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello, and welcome. This story will explore friendship pairings that I believe are not often explored. Being apart of a team is much more than depending on the same two people. In the aftermath of Ordinemon's death, the Chosen Children must reconnect with each other and themselves. I hope you enjoy and would appreciate any reviews.

_“Hi! You’ve reached Meiko Mochizuki. I’m so sorry that I wasn’t able to answer your call, but I’m sure I will call you back!”_

BEEP.

_“Hi! You’ve reached Meiko Mochizuki. I’m so sorry that I wasn’t able to answer your-“_ With an audible snap, Mimi hurriedly closed her phone. If Mei Mei wasn’t ready to talk quite yet, Mimi wasn’t going to force her.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been three months since Ordinemon’s death.

For many, it had been three months of recovery. Odaiba had been left in shambles: concrete crumbled underneath shoes and veins of yellow caution tape outlined the path of havoc. The rebuilding process had been arduous, at best. Men worked all hours of the night to repair school buildings, private businesses, and apartment buildings. Communities arranged funerals for the fallen, and flower petals littered the streets for weeks.

For the child soldiers, it has been three months of nightmares and cold sweats and distance. Blood was on their hands; it haunted their dreams. The death of a Chosen’s partner took a toll on all of them, especially Meiko. After returning to Tottori, her contact with the other children had ceased completely.

It had been three months of voicemails and unanswered emails. Even Mimi’s infectious personality couldn’t reach through to her. Initially, her spirit was crushed, ground up like the cinnamon her mother puts into hot chocolate when the weather becomes frigid. Since the brunette realized that she wouldn’t even know what to say. Her blunt and unfiltered thoughts were not what Meiko needed right now, and even though she wanted nothing more than to comfort her friend, Mimi gallantly removed herself from the situation.

Sighing, she scrolled through her emails, surprised and how few and far between the message from her friends were. Contact between the other Chosen had always been spotty (at best): their lives often took differing routes, and many of them found themselves tied up in various sports, clubs, and hobbies.

Snow flurries danced along most windowsills of Japan, cocooning most of its residences in layers of polyester warmth. Winter coats were often too cumbersome to be considered fashionable, so Mimi found herself indoors whenever the temperature nosedived. While the young woman would normally find comfort in the scratchy throw blanket that laid across her thin lap and the steaming mug of herbal tea enveloped by her manicured nails, her heart weighed heavily in her chest.

The reality programming echoed around her vacant walls; Mimi’s parents often attended various business Christmas parties in hopes of her father gaining a raise. They wouldn’t return until the alcohol ran dry. Her heavy heart longed for the company of her friends.

In earlier years, the snow would corral the Chosen Children into one of their welcoming homes (all of their parents had long ago accepted that they would host the rowdy group at least once per season). Bright cheeks and the smell of melted snow would fill the dwellings as young feet would hurry past, eager to play in the flurries, and eager to stay warm. As the years have passed, their visits and home-made gifts (there was one year where they had all made each other macaroni necklaces) dwindled into generic Christmas cards and a quick “Hello” in the school hallways.

Mimi longed for the company of her friends. She missed the glare the glinted off a pair of goggles, and the melancholy tune of a harmonica. She longed for the sound of furious typing; a sound that had often lulled her to sleep during that first adventure so long ago. Her soul ached for the brown satchel that carried their necessities, and more so, their means of survival. Mimi craved those soft smiles that only love could provide; always for others, never for herself. Lastly, she missed the hat the was too big for its occupant, and a thin silver whistle that reflected the light all too well.

Now, Mimi had never been one to second-guess her actions. Sincerity came easier without thought, so her fingers flew across her D-Terminal as they typed out a (long, wordy, heartfelt, sad) e-mail to the occupants of her thoughts. The hesitation came afterward as her nimble finger hovered above the “send” button. The green lettering seemingly mocked the brunette and her Crest, and without further thought, eleven devices across Odaiba dinged with incoming mail.

_“Konichiwa! Mimi here! It has been too terribly long since I have seen you all, and as the Americans say, there is no time like the present! Speaking of presents, Christmas is just around the corner, and we all have yet to see each other_ ☹ _Assuming that this is a mistake, you are all invited to the Yagami residence (Yagami-san permitting, of course) on the 13th of December at approximately 6:30 p.m. Attendance is mandatory (Daisuke, set an alarm. We all know how you are). I can’t wait to see you there!! Lots of Love, Mimi!”_

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Across Odaiba Bay, ahead of raven hair dripped in sweat. Heavy panting was muffled by a thick, cream-colored duvet and frail fingers violently rubbed stormy eyes in an attempt to chase away the images that had been haunting him for weeks. From somewhere deep within his bedroom, a small sound of alert fell on deaf ears. His heart pounded terrifyingly strong in his chest, and the visions continue to play in a loop. The blood, then her piercing scream. The sickening crack of a pair of hand-me-down googles echoed in his mind. More blood, and then the slowing of a pulse. A stained tunic, with its occupant limp. The sensation of being lifted from somewhere, and the blare of a siren. More blood. _So_. _Much_. _Blood_.

His device vibrated once more, snapping Ken Ichijoji from his horrified stupor. It had been three months of nightmares. After he located his long-forgotten D-Terminal ( _" I really should stop shoving things in my dirty clothes hamper"),_ he ran his fingers through his damp hair. Eyes scanned over the energetic words, and the overuse of exclamation points elicited a small sigh. He hadn’t spoken to the older Chosen Children since The Incident. As the young genius struggled to contain the sobs that wrecked his thin frame, his stomach heaved and throbbed. Bile rose in his throat, and he was powerless against its current.

Soon, his blanket mingled with the contents of his stomach, and the foul smell filled the quaint room. His D-Terminal and the e-mail long forgotten, the boy genius slowly began to clean himself up, tossing his bed covers into the wire clothes hamper. His thoughts flitted to those of his friends, to purple hair and battered goggles and fierce, stubborn eyes. He thought of baseball caps and red barrettes and struggled to blink away the tears that threatened to stain his cheeks.

It wasn’t their fault. They couldn’t have been there to help them; they had made sure of that. The Crests of Hope and Light held the balance of the Digital World; all of the Chosen Children knew this. Even though they were younger than the rest, the second generation knew they couldn’t risk their friend’s lives, and in turn, the fate of two worlds. The older ones wouldn’t have been much help either, just sitting ducks while the newer Chosen did what they had to do. Despite all of the heartache and suffering that came along with it, the decision to temporarily wipe their memories had been for the best. Takeru and Hikari were especially persistent and would have found their way into the Digital World without much effort. Those two had ways of transporting that the others had yet to figure out.

_“It doesn’t matter,”_ thought Ken, _“they remember us now”_. The corner of his mouth turned up slightly at the tearful reunion. So much had been lost that day. Buildings laid in heaps and streets were abandoned. The children had mourned the loss of their leader, and then, their teacher. Finally, Meicoomon. The name sent shivers up Ken’s spine. Nothing good could have come from the Crest of Darkness.

As soon as the darkened data particles filtered towards the sky, visions of Christmas parties and Just Dance tournaments and large piles of entangled limbs unearthed themselves in a pair of fourteen-year-old minds. Once glance confirmed what the other already knew: their friends succeeded. Ken most remember his crowed hospital room. His parents were the first to embrace him. Curly red hair tickled his cheek and he couldn’t remember the last time he had hugged his mother. His father only offered a reassuring pat on his shoulder; the gentle man couldn’t bear to inflict any more pain onto his only living child. A week later, brown and blonde hair tickled his cheeks, and he breathed in their familiar scent. Rushed apologies filtered in his ears, but he assured them that it could never be their fault; they were the ones that had cleared their memories, after all.

His companions received the same treatment. Soon, the twelve ( _“Or is it thirteen, now?”_ ) found themselves together. It had been three months since. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder had its way of wedging itself between even the closest of friends. None of them spoke of the crumbled buildings or the lucid nightmares that filled their houses with screams in the late hours of the night. They didn’t speak of the sirens and blood and dark waters that forever left them chilled to the bone. They didn’t speak at all.

With his mess efficiently cleaned, and his digital clock demanding that he return to bed, Ken crawled on top of his cotton sheets and fell into a dreamless, fitful sleep.

The e-mail could wait until tomorrow.


	2. Of Silence and Flame

The Yagami siblings seemingly sighed in unison. As much as they cared for their excitable friend, it was very much like her to invite herself, and others, into their house.

Tension settled in thick waves around the dining room table, the sound of chopsticks scraping against porcelain bowls being the only refuge for the pair of worried parents. It wasn’t like their children to go without talking for long. Both having semi-agreeable personalities aided in their close bond. Well, that, and their trip to the Digital World.

Recently, however, their inside jokes and banter had been replaced with thick static. Hikari, while once a quiet creature, was rendered mute the moment she stepped through the Yagami threshold. Taichi hardly escaped his room and only made an appearance for meal times.

Yuuko, though observant, could not place the sudden shift in her children. She knew that this past battle had been the worst yet and that the nightmares left her babies screaming into the pitch-black darkness. Her babies needed each other now more than ever, and yet, it seemed that neither spoke a word to the other.

The brunette siblings excused themselves from the table, leaving the blackened tuna melts behind. Many things have changed, but Yuuko’s cooking stayed consistent.

Nestled between her rosy pink sheets, Hikari quickly pressed the “reply all” option on her gray device. “ _Mimi-chan,_ ” the message began, “ _how kind of you to invite everyone over. I will be sure to ask my mom to cater for this event (please, build up your gag reflexes, her cooking has only gotten worse). I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if we all hung out; I think she misses you all more than me. Just reply to my e-mail if any of you can make it. Hikari._ ” Her fingers danced across the keyboard, and eventually pressed the dainty “send” button.

Before the device could be laid to rest on her (currently messy, currently disorganized) desk, a small vibration shook her arms. Someone had already replied.

With the cover flipped upwards, mahogany eyes scanned over the pixels and typed out a quick reply before turning over and falling into a restless slumber.

In the room beside her, a deep frown settled onto tanned skin, an expression the so-called-leader began to wear more often. Despite having faced one of the most difficult tribulations that life had to offer, trying to bridge the distance between himself and Hikari appeared to be a more daunting task. Maintaining the balance between worlds was easy.

His D-Terminal chimed with an incoming message. Frustrated, he ran his calloused fingers through his mop of brown hair. It was the first time in three months that his younger sister had communicated with him if one could call a group message a valuable source of conversation. Another alert signaled a different response.

**From: Hida Iori**

**To: Everyone**

**Body: Thank you, Hikari-san, for inviting us! But I believe you forgot to mention your brother in the last message, haha! (Also, consider this my R.S.V.P) Goodnight, everyone!**

Taichi didn’t hesitate to read his sister’s reply:

**From: Yagami Hikari**

**To: Everyone**

**Body: There was no mistake. Goodnight**.

His shoulders, lean and strong from years of football training, slumped. Hikari was upset with him, and there was nothing he could do to remedy that. She knew, just as well as the rest did, that the only way to save the worlds (and themselves) was to sacrifice one of their own. If only she knew how much he hated himself for the murder of a comrade. If only she knew how he often woke up in a cold sweat, envisioning fluorescent red lights and ragged breaths and one last raise of a hand, stretching, s t r e t c h i n g, until the inevitable thump against a bloodied countertop. She would never know about her brother’s panicked breathes against plexiglass windows and how his fingernails cracked when he tried to scratch his way out.

She would never know that her words haunted him, twisting and constricting his heart until he felt as if he couldn’t breathe: 

_"I will never forgive you!”_

\--------------------

Takaishi Takeru stared at his popcorn ceiling, his mind tracing out constellations and the bodies of his Digimon friends. His train of thought quickly shifted to those of his human friends. Despite Mimi coming on strong (as per usual), the blonde couldn’t stop the excitement that filled his cheeks with a rosy hue. It had been so long since he had seen the others.

The silver cell phone that rested in its owner’s gray sweatpants found itself pressed against the said cheek, and a familiar voice filled the speaker.

“Aniki,” Takeru began excitedly, “did you get Mimi-chan’s message? Are you excited to see everyone together again?”

A sigh could be heard from the elder brother, though he was not annoyed at his sibling for calling him at such an hour. The first Digital Adventure taught Yamato to be appreciative of the small things and to never take Takeru for granted.

“Yeah, I got the message, and the replies that came with it. Is everything alright with Hikari?”

Takeru ignored the flutter in his heart at the mention of her name; this wasn’t the time. “I’m not sure. To be honest, we haven’t spoken much. Since middle school started, we have been in different classes. Whenever we walk home together, we mostly talk about easy things; the past few months have been painful enough. Do you think she could still be mad at Taichi?”

“I think so. You know her better than I do, though. The last time I talked to her, she was eight and the world was ending. Are you going to this get-together?” Yamato absent-mindedly kicked a pair of dirty boxers that landed amongst crumpled homework assignments and empty soda cans. ' _I’ll clean tomorrow_ ,' the rock star thought.

“Yeah, I guess so. I really miss all of us hanging out. There used to be a time where our parents couldn’t separate the lot of us. I want us to hang out without the threat od he apocalypse hanging over our heads.”

“Hmm, I guess you are right. See you tomorrow?”

After the usual closing remarks, Takeru closed his phone. His bed felt empty, however, without the comforting pressure of a small, orange body pressed against his side.

\--------------------

A week passed with uninteresting happenings. The life of the Chosen Children never remained still for long, and things were quickly stirred up by a feisty head of lilac hair. With the return of the memories came the return of other things: banter and sleepovers, and most importantly, an important discussion held over greasy fast food.

An uninteresting week did not easily translate into an enjoyable week. With six bodies pressed into a booth, conversation flowed. Iori spoke with new-found confidence.

“I knew that being in the sixth grade was going to be tough, but I was not expecting so many homework assignments in a week. I’ll be working until I’m thirteen, at least.” An uncharacteristic sigh escaped his lips, and he rested his chin on his palm.

“Oh, yeah?” Daisuke’s rash voice interjected, “Try having to study for midterms. I have six classes, so that means I have to study six times harder than I usually have to.” Hikari and Takeru laughed, despite Daisuke's unusually tense shoulders, but the other four only looked forlorn at their rice balls.

A somber voice broke the atmosphere. “You know, being missing for months has its downfalls. We all may get held back a grade for leaving all of our courses incomplete.”

Ken spoke for the first time that evening, “I’m positive things will work out, Miyako. Our parents and the digital detectives have already discussed the matter with the school board, and I am sure that it all will work out.” He offered the group a weak smile, and the table sobered up. One could grow up a lot in an impromptu summer.

“Hey, I have an idea,” started the lilac-haired female, leaning over Iori’s burger, which is in danger of being squashed by her newly developed chest (there was more than one way to grow up in a summer.) “Why don’t all of us meet up before Mimi’s party and pull names for Secret Santa? I know that we all haven’t been on the same page since Ordinemon’s death,” Hikari visibly winced, “and I feel like this could bring us all a little closer together.” Miyako finished; her brazen voice echoed off the diner’s walls.

“You know, I think that would be a fun idea. Miyako, send that suggestion to everyone. We could all meet up tonight at the playground that sits right outside of Odaiba Elementary school.” Takeru’s blonde hair was temporarily swept into a sky-blue beanie, the only evidence of the frosty weather inside the toasty restaurant. He was always one to keep the peace amongst his friends.

After furiously typing a message into her D-Terminal, Miyako settled back into her seat and adjusted her scarf back into its place. The conversation continued as normal, with the old friends regaling each other on their (happier) times in the Digital World, gracefully dancing around the harder-to-swallow subjects.

The children paid for their meals and subjected themselves to the chilly weather. As icy winds nipped at uncovered skin, six little noses turned differing shades of pink, and they all hurriedly said their goodbyes and split off into six different directions.

Daisuke shoved his hands into the pockets of his winter coat and was bombarded by mental images of a jacket adorned with appliqué flames. His fingers tingled, and he became all too aware of the puffy, pink trails on his abdomen. The worse of the blisters had already burst, leaving pinpricks of shiny, purple flesh in their wake. Flamedramon hadn’t meant to miss the orange flash of fur, but it ran _so fast_ and it was hard to focus, so the Digimon fired at will, hoping the attack made contact with _something_ (and, oh, it did).

His hand-me-down goggles took the brunt of his fall, cracking on impacts. The shock momentarily blocked the lapping of a fiery tongue against his soft skin, but agony soon followed. In the back of his mind, his pre-school teacher begged him to stop, drop, and roll, but he couldn’t focus. The smell of charred flesh wafted towards his nose, forcing his stomach to contract in painful dry heaves. Shrill scream echoes off the digital forest, and bile rose in his throat. He remembered trying to stand on his feet, but his melted flesh adhered to the dirt below him. Daisuke never considered himself to be a religious man, but when white circles clouded his vision, the screams were replaced with prayers.

The brunette stilled himself against a light post, shaking as these images invaded his mind. He expected nightmares and found some comfort in the consistency of their arrival. Flashbacks left him staggering, unsure of where he was or who he was with.

Coming to, his chocolatey brown eyes were met with a stranger’s concerned gaze.

“Young man, are you okay? Do I need to call someone to come and get you?” the woman asked.

Daisuke didn’t bother with a response and ran the rest of the way home.


	3. Of Red Cheeks and Paper Slips

Snow fell lightly, coating Japan in a layer of angel feathers. The ice crunched underneath thick, winter boots as twelve children paved separate paths to the same location. Glancing up, Sora nervously pulled at her mittens, anxiety settling in her stomach as old swing sets settled their way into her view.

A worn beanie (the color of Piyomon’s eyes, no less), adorned her ginger locks. The hat, worn for symbolism than fashion taste, gave its owner a rush of confidence. Her covered toes silently tapped against the entrance gate, but she convinced herself to nudge the gate open, and with a single protestory c r e a k, Sora followed the trails of various footprints.

Blonde hair was poorly disguised by matching winter hats. Her heart rate sped up, partly from her overactive nerves, and mostly from seeing her boyfriend, Ishida Yamato. As if he could hear her thoughts, the rock star glanced up from his cell phone and offered her a small smile in greeting. She should have expected as much; their relationship had been strained as of late, and the tensions amongst the group only served to distance themselves more.

His younger brother, however, did not stand for such informal greetings. “Sora-san!” his cheerful voice reverberated in her mind, and she only had seconds to prepare herself for the inevitable bone-crushing hug Takeru was sure to give her.

Hair tickled her nostrils and she breathed in his familiar scent. Do not misunderstand, Sora harbored no romantic feelings for the young basketball star, but she often thought of him as her own brother and missed him dearly.

He pulled away, and a wide smile spread across his not-so-boyish features. _‘Wow,’_ Sora thought, _‘he really has grown up.’_ “How have you been?” he asked excitedly.

Offering him a small smile in return, she replied with a simple “fine”, and Takeru knew better than to press her. Even though he pretended to be oblivious to most things, he could tell that the dynamic between his brother and Sora had shifted.

Everyone’s dynamics have shifted.

Eventually, twelve pairs of shoes littered the rusty playground equipment, the older crowd opting to stand rather than utilizing the decrepit swings.

The silence was thick and settled around the group like a comforter. Jyou, who had been characteristically late to the meeting, uncharacteristically broke the silence.

“It’s been too long, guys. I guess I can say that I have actually missed you.” Small smiles were shared across the group.

“Well,” Mimi’s exuberance practically bounced off the fallen snowflakes, “it’s time! Sora, your hat.”

Sora flinched in surprise. “Why does it have to be my hat? Besides, I’m sure that Takeru-kun has plenty to spare.” An indignant hey was lost in the wind and fell upon Mimi’s deaf ears.

“But Sora, it has to be yours. It’s lucky, and to be honest, this group needs all the luck it can get.”

As the eldest girl removed the garment in question, Koushiro nearly laughed as he realized why Sora had been reluctant in the first place. “Hey,” he began, quickly gathering the interest of the group, “isn’t that the hat that Taichi-san threw up in all those years ago?”

Frigid chuckles were passes amongst the group, and a shared blush between two proved his statement to be true.

“That’s just unsanitary. Did you at least apologize to Takenouchi-san, Yagami-san?” the youngest spoke up. Jyou briefly wondered if it was past his bedtime.

Hikari spoke on behalf of her brother. “He only remembered to apologize _after_ she had put the hat on, but by that point, it was too late. I remember that before the whole Diaboromon incident started, Taichi tried to send an e-mail to her, but it wasn’t able to go through.”

Sora smiled fondly at the memory and handed her worn cap to her best friend. The young woman in question pulled several slips of paper from underneath her shirt (the boys made a mental note to harass Koushiro for the brilliant blush that threatened to make the snow around his face melt) and placed them into the hat.

“Okay, gang! I have put all our names into this hat, aside from Mei-Mei-chan. We will all send her each a gift later. The rules of my Secret Santa Extraordinaire are simple! First, you can only pull out one name. Once you pull a name, there is absolutely _no_ switching. If you happen to pull your own name, or the name of your sibling, you must put the name back into the hat and draw again.” Mimi took a breath and continued.

“Secondly, you cannot tell anyone else which name you got. The best part of my Secret Santa Extraordinaire is that the person shopping for you is a _secret_. After we all go home, we will all send a list of things we like and don’t like to the group chat so that we are all on the same page. Mostly, this is to make things easier for the boys.”

Eight pairs of eyes glare (or in one case, lovingly oogle) their resident cheerleader.

“Thirdly, all gifts must be personal. We have known each other for years. Guys, we have sacrificed so much for each other, and I think it is ridiculous that we have let ourselves drift this far apart. The budget for this singular gift, however, is up to you, but the maximum you can spend is ten thousand yen.” The younger Chosen Children looked at each other in shock.

_’I am going to have to cover, like, ten million shifts at the store to afford this crazy lady's schemes,'_ thought Miyako.

“This is our last chance to bond before we all truly go our separate ways. Childhood doesn’t last forever, a fact I know you all are aware of. Please, just entertain this idea for me; for us.” Earnest nods were her only response. It didn’t matter; the wind roared in her ears and she raised her voice for one last proclamation. “Your gift must be wrapped by the thirteenth of December at 6:30 p.m. Taichi-san and Hikari-chan, did your parents give us permission to have that meet-up?”

“Yes,” Taichi responded curtly and waited for his friend to continue. A chill had settled around the group and elicited several sniffles and one harsh cough from his younger sister. They needed to get home.

“Okay, those are all of the rules I have! Now, let’s get to picking!”

“How should we do this?” Daisuke asked.

“How about the order of our crests?” Taichi responded, a slight smirk hidden in his voice.

Miyako rolled her eyes before her retort was heard over the mumblings of the others. “How would that work, Taichi-san? There are three of us that have two crests.” His out-grown goggles glinted when he sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassment coating his cheeks. Ken’s quiet voice silenced the laughter at Miyako and Daisuke’s exchange.

“I think we should in order from youngest to eldest. It is getting late, and Iori-san needs to get home. Not to mention, Hikari-san’s cough is getting worse.”

“I agree, let’s go ahead and start with Hida-san.” Yamato ended the debate, much to Ken’s surprise. The eleven-year-old shuffled towards the hat in Mimi’s outstretched reach. His thin hand dipped shyly into its depths and swirled the slips of paper around in a pseudo-whirlpool. Iori’s fingernails grasped at a slip towards the bottom of the cap and pulled it upwards, discreetly viewing the name of his recipient. Instantly, he thought to throw it back in and say that he happened to get his own name. After all, he was the first to draw; anything was possible. Quickly, his more honorable side took charge. _‘Lying is wrong,’_ he thought, _‘I can get through this.’_ Still, he couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach.

Next, Daisuke shoved his calloused palm into the pool and quickly withdrew, a scrap of paper in his hands. The grimace that followed did not go unnoticed by the others, but no one dared to comment.

An impatient huff was enough to pull Daisuke from his daydreams and make room for the youngest Yagami. Her hand was tinged with pink, her gloves removed for paper-feeling-tactile purposes. This strategic moved proved to be beneficial; a flush of excitement rushed to her cheeks once the identity of her unknowing partner was revealed. _‘This will be a piece of cake!’_

Takeru, ever confident, unfurled his piece of paper, making sure that the prying eyes of his closest friends were far away. ‘Not expected,’ he smirked, ‘but an interesting development.’ It wasn’t until later that his apprehension seeped in, and painful memories resurfaced.

Ken was hesitant, but Mimi’s nagging was enough to drive any man to the brink of insanity. With the names in the hat dwindling, his fingers had to reach further to grasp the object of his search. A quick glance confirmed that it wasn’t going to be easy. Given his complicated history with the other Chosen, he had only been able to get close with the younger six, much of the older kids still referring to him as “Ichijouji-san” instead of some variation of his first name. Still, he considered himself lucky; he could have picked Daisuke.

Miyako vibrated with energy, nearly yanking the cap from her crest partner’s grip. After three ( _very_ ) violent shakes, she pulled out a handful of slips, effectively crumpling the remaining names. A singular piece of paper danced towards the piles of mush around her boots, and she called it fate. Her vibrant mood shifted into something ambiguous. She pondered her recipient for a while afterwards. As she snuggled into her overs later that night, she listened to her older sister whisper into her cell phone. _‘This will be easy,’_ she thought. After all, nothing could be worse than listening to your sibling have phone sex a mere three feet away from you.

Koushiro was next. Mimi smiled at him an expectantly, giving him the courage he needed to step closer and let his fate be decided. The world, as he had come to know, took no prisoners. A part of him was overjoyed; this could finally be his chance! The more rational part of his brain, however, reminded him to never get his hopes up and that he truly had no chance.

Mimi thrust the hat into the genius’ hands, insisting that it would be cheating if she held the hat for herself. Her confident smile overtook her dainty facial features as she followed the example that the younger kids set. Soon enough, her facial features distorted themselves into genuine surprise. With twelve names to choose from, she hadn’t even expected this outcome. She shrugged it off, knowing that this would eventually bring the team closer together.

Sora gave little thought to her actions, her thoughts preoccupied with vision of hot tea and fuzzy socks. Ken let out a soft yawn, an indicator as to how late it had gotten. With only four names left in her favorite hat, the pickings were slim. Her choice, however, comforted the reservations she didn’t know she had. Sora always made a point to talk to each Chosen personally, even calling them through the week to make sure that all was well. Despite knowing plenty about her _chosen_ , they all knew how quickly someone could grow up.

Yamato’s reaction was not as peaceful. He was upset. Out of all the three names that were left, he got saddled with that. The person he picked wasn’t horrible or anything, quite the opposite. The rockstar had hoped to pick someone he was _friends_ with and didn’t talk to only once in a blue moon. Worst of all, he was nervous. Any misstep could result in his life practically ending (okay, probably not, but he would never hear the end of it from multiple ends).

With a sigh, Taichi reached into the cap and took out a piece of paper. A smirk hinted its way onto his face as he viewed the name written in careful Japanese lettering. Mimi sure was thorough. Now, he couldn’t even pretend to read the name wrong. A glance calmed his fears, and his smirk held itself firmly in place.

Jyou sighed, not being given a choice. The last name was thrust into his grasp by manicured nails, and anxiety worked its way into his gut. Bile threatened to climb out of his throat, but he forced it down. He was not a little kid anymore; he could deal with a minor inconvenience such as this.

The Chosen all said their goodbyes and exchanged promises to message each other their likes and dislikes by the next morning. Twelve pairs of winter boots shuffled towards similar directions, each child seeking warmth.

Twelve minds wandered towards the slips of notebook papers stored in their pockets or hand or bags, all coming to the same conclusion:

Saving the world was easy. Trying to buy a present for a friend-who-you-obviously-didn’t-know-as-well-as-you-thought-you-did was an entirely different battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey, y'all! Thank you for all of the support so far.  
> I was purposely vague with whom picked whom. All will be revealed as the characters struggle to buy each other gifts (they realize that they don't know each other as well as they thought).  
> Who do you think picked who? I'm curious as to what y'all think.


	4. Of Courage and Hope

Taichi paced across his room, careful to avoid the heaps of filthy football gear and dirty underwear. Despite his sister getting her own room when he had entered middle school, bed bunks from his childhood stood proud against his beige walls.

The smell of burnt tomato cake and spoiled milk wafted through his vent, disrupting his thoughts. _‘Okaa-chan must’ve found a new recipe.’_

Thankful for the distraction, he opened his door, and took his place on the worn living room couch, next to his silent younger sibling.

“Good morning, Hikari-chan.” He began pleasantly, only coaxing a glance from her steely brown eyes. Though the tension has eased a bit over the past few weeks, the pair still found themselves dancing around each other. Before, Hikari and Taichi made it a point to have at least one legitimate conversation a day and would often talk to each other about their worries or celebrations. In the After, the conversation ceased as the siblings found convenient ways to avoid each other.

Taichi didn’t focus on his troubles with Hikari, however, as he was more preoccupied with her best friend: Takaishi Takeru. A nondescript flutter of paper, hidden amongst the food wrappers and discarded CD’s (most of them being from Yamato’s _Teenage Wolf_ era) in Taichi’s room, bore the Chosen’s name in a small, elegant script.

He knew Takeru well enough: he had been there for every Pokémon themed birthday party. Taichi had held him as he mourned the loss of his partner, and later, his brother. He had been to enough basketball game to know that Takeru had some serious skill on the court, leading his team to victory on multiple accounts. _‘But what could I get him?’_ Surely a pair of Pikachu boxer briefs wouldn't suffice anymore.

Seeking help from his sister or Yamato was out of the question; Mimi was a stickler for rules, especially her own. He was left to his own devices.

Taichi settled himself on the threadbare armchair and waited patiently for breakfast to be finished. The smell of eggs wafted towards his nose and simultaneously awaken memories from the very beginning of their adventures. They had been walking for _so long_ and were _so hungry_. He remembered the dropping temperature and the icy blue that painted itself across Takeru’s lips. Just as all hope for survival was lost, the group stumbled upon a refrigerator stocked with the breakfast staple. He remembered the way Takeru’s face lit up and how excited and relieved they all were to know that death would not come that night.

Memories are often comparable to rocks on a mountainside: once one comes tumbling down, many more are sure to follow in its wake.

The next moment that plays in Taichi’s mind is one of heartbreak. Devimon had been relentless; forcing gears the color of ink into defenseless creatures and haunting the daydreams of the children. Patamon had been a late bloomer, the others digivolving long before he was able, but that made Angemon’s entrance no less powerful. Against the water-colored black sky, his radiant angelic wings exuberated power. The digital devil, a stark contrast to Takeru’s partner, did as he knew best, and wreaked havoc on Angemon’s fresh form. A blinding, heart-wrenching flash, then snow. No, not snow. Particles. Flakes of digital data floated upwards, dissipating into the air. Shrieks erupted of the mountain’s edge and echoed across Primary Village, reverberating into the night air. Takeru was too young. Too young to be so far way from home; too young to watch his closest friend be ripped apart and murdered. Sobs wracked his frail frame long before Angemon uttered his last words, and the eight-year-old nearly vomited on himself.

Sometimes, Taichi still dreamt of that night, Takeru’s screams following him even after he woke up.

Undeniably, his friend had grown since them. Taichi watched from the sidelines as the (not-so) small, blonde boy helped lead their second adventure, offering support and advice to their newer Chosen friends. He saw his shoulders widen and listened to his voice shift from a shrill soprano and settle into his chest. He watched the pale pinkness begin to paint Takeru’s cheeks anytime the boy’s brunette best friend (and Taichi’s own sister) would banter or jokingly flirt with him. Taichi saw the scar from the Kaiser’s whip, and knew that it represented much more than a small squabble. Taichi's unofficial little brother ( _‘My little ototo-san’_ ) had grown up, and now the older boy didn’t know who he was anymore, or what to get him.

A lump settled in his throat as he came to a conclusion: he needed to talk to an expert, Mimi’s rules be damned. “Hikari-chan?” he called out, searching for the one person that knew the boy best. A hum, short and sweet, came from behind him. His neck, tanned from years of football and sun, craned to meet her eyes as her frail, thin fingers set their table for the first meal of the day. Glancing down, Taichi snickered at the faded _Hello Kitty_ pajamas that abruptly stopped mid-calf, exposing the bottom half of Hikari’s legs, eliciting a scowl.

“Listen,” Taichi began, hesitating at the tenseness in the small girl’s shoulders, “I know that things between us haven’t been great, but I could really use your help with this whole Secret Santa thing.”

Forgoing the usual honorific for her brother, Hikari addressed him by name. “Taichi-san, you know how Mimi-san is about rules, and especially about secrets.” A small pause settled in her voice, the only sound in the room being the metallic tap tap tap of a fork absent-mindedly being strummed against the table. There was a distance in her eyes that Taichi mused was much too old for the meager age of fourteen. “However, given how horrible you tend to be with giving gifts, I agree to help you.”

An audible _whoop_ signaled the elder’s satisfaction, and Hikari’s eyebrows were drawn downwards.

“There is one condition!” the uncharacteristic escalation in her voice startling her mother (who at this point had already burned the water that the rice was boiling in), and Taichi was all ears. “Under any and all circumstances you are not allowed to pressure me into telling you who I picked. Just because you want to be reckless and break the rules does not mean I wish to do the same. I have _standards_.”

She placed the hostage fork in its rightful place, ignoring the hurt that flashed in her brother’s eyes. She ignored the hurt that settled in her own heart and the darkness in her mind.

\--

With the winter wind nipping at noses and wriggling its way into shoes, the mall that most of the Chosen Children often frequent was surprisingly packed with thousands of warm bodies. Many were shopping for the upcoming holidays, and the Yagami siblings were no exception.

Taichi fell into his role of ‘Protector’ easily, shouldering the tide of people so that his younger sister did not have to. Their small talk frequented to a minimum (translation: his sister’s silence was stonier than a Gotsumon).

He let Hikari lead the way, trusting that she had been trained in the art of ‘mall rat’ well enough by Miyako and Mimi. Sure enough, the child of Light paved his path once again, stopping only to briefly admire a soft-pretzel stand perched at the edge of the food court.

Breaking the silence, he motioned towards the salty treat and wriggled his bushy eyebrows in suggestion. His sister must take after him, he admits, as even her cold anger towards him ( _‘Killing Ordinemon had been the only way,’_ Taichi briefly reminds himself) could not deter her from quietly accepting his proverbial olive branch.

They ate their pretzels in silence (Hikari’s with melted cheese, because he knows it is her favorite, and Taichi’s with mustard, just because he can).

She flinched at the sound of her brother clearing his voice, though both parties chose to ignore it. “So, do you think you can help me with my predicament?”

Hikari thoughtfully chewed on the remains of her meal, seemingly buying herself more time before she had to formulate a response.

“Personally, I don’t understand how picking _Takeru_ of all people is a _predicament._ He is, like, the most easy-going guy in the group, and the most appreciative. He would love anything you got him.”

“Aww, thank you imoto-chan!” he patted her head sarcastically. “I knew you had faith in my wicked ability to pick out awesome presents." he finished, rubbing the back of his neck in feigned modesty. 

_‘Those hands murdered Meicoomon.’_ She thought, shying away from her brother before quickly distracting herself. This was not the time or place to think of such things.

As to not betray her inner monologue, Hikari rolled her eyes. “You gave Sora-san a hair-clip for her birthday, Taichi-san.”

She smiled inwardly at his exasperated sigh. “I already told you, I got it because it was _pretty,_ not because I didn’t like her hair or wanted her to style it differently! I swear, girls are the worst.”

“And yet, here you are, seeking help from a girl. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”

She whisked away a piece of hair that fell into her eyes. Maybe she was the one that needed the hair-pin.

Despite being distracted, Taichi couldn’t help but enjoy his banter. It had been so long since his sister gave him the time of day to actually talk to her, and he was eating up her attention.

“What would you get Takeru, Hikari-chan? You are his best friend.”

Her cheeks warmed at the thought of her cheeky blonde friend, a sight that Taichi chose not to comment on (but would remember for “Big Brotherly Purposes”).

“This isn’t about me; you’re his Secret Santa.”

Taichi sat thoughtfully for a moment, eyeing the map of his local shopping center, trying to plan the best method of attack.

“To be honest, I’m at a loss. He isn’t eight-years-old and afraid anymore.” Hikari smiled at the memory of the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed boy, and vaguely gestured towards the map. Taichi’s eyes lit up with recognition, and a quiet _‘perfect’_ whispered between his chapped lips.

The pair climbed up three flights of escalators, shoulders touching as strangers closed in. They passed several stores before Taichi spotted it: the gift that Takeru would love, not just because it came from a friend.

Even Hikari had to admit, in most ways, it was the perfect thing Taichi could give him.

Dragging his sister behind him (much to her dismay), he horridly pranced around the store and zeroed in on his target. After the purchase ( _‘Four thousand and eight hundred yen for this?’_ he questioned, but swiped his card anyway), the siblings began their trek intentionally to the exit.

Mush sloshed under their boots. Snake flakes flurried around each sibling as they entertained their own thoughts. The bag, persistently smacking the side of his leg as he walked, served as a reminder of his sister’s momentary embarrassment at the mention of Takeru’s name. _‘What could it mean?’_

Outside of their dispute, Hikari had been acting differently, putting more effort into her appearance than previously. Hikari usually wore whatever was comfortable, and turned down all of her friend's offers of a "Mimi Make-Over Extravaganza!" Taichi initially thought it was because she had been spending more time with Miyako; the lavender-haired girl wouldn’t know the word _heavy_ if it shot a Celestial Arrow in her face.

The realization struck him unexpectedly, sending a shock of surprise down his spine and effectively stopping him in his path. Strangers shot dirty looks in his direction and altered their direction to avoid the humanoid statue.

Hikari turned around, worry etched on her face.

“Are you alright?” she questioned.

A gust of sparkling air carried her question to his ears, and his brain struggled to disguise his discovery.

Deciding to test his theory, he innocently inquired “Do you think Takeru will like his gift." a pause, "Like, actually?”

Once the inevitable flush settled onto her cheeks, she hastily nodded before turning around, intent on getting home before she lost her fingers to frostbite.

_‘Oh.’_ the leader thought, though he couldn’t find it in himself to be disappointed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am trying to update quickly, but this chapter has to be rewritten twice. I am still unhappy with it, but you all deserve an update.   
> The rest of the pairings will be revealed with each chapter. My apologies for the vague ending, but what do you think Taichi got Takeru? Do you think that the Yagami siblings will reconcile soon?  
> Is this story okay so far?  
> I adore your feedback!


	5. Of Sincere Love and Reliablity

Miyako was pissed. Sure, she loved her friends; she practically had to, given one of her crests was of Love.

Her lavender hair billowed around her as she haphazardly tidied her shared bedroom. In elementary school, Miyako’s hair settled around her lithe waist, often becoming troublesome during the heat of battle.

The fifteen-year-old absent-mindedly ran her fingers through her purple locks, shivering as her scalped screamed. She could never forget the claws, soaked crimson in Iori’s blood. Jagged edges hoisted her by the scalp, slamming her into the mountainside, and the sound of her ribs snapping still haunted her nightmares.

Her hair, once long and beautiful, now hung woefully at the base of her shoulder blades. Her heart dropped as she thought of her Jogress partner seeing her for the first time in the After. Miyako’s hospital room had been separated from the others, with Ken’s screaming and Daisuke’s sobs preventing her from rest.

Her friend’s salty tears settled in her hair, burning as they dripped along her bloody, exposed scalp. The hair fanned around her head in an uneven halo. Hikari’s fingers busied themselves with gently detangling the matted lavender tendrils, desperately trying to choke back her sniffles.

When Miyako was finally discharged, her mother couldn’t look her in the eyes. Her excuse was that losing her had been “too hard” and she “needed time to adjust”, but Miyako could call bullshit from a mile away. They had wiped all their memories, starting with their parents. For the time that Miyako had been “missing”, she made sure that there wasn’t anyone left to remember her.

Hikari slept over that night, curling her small frame around her best friend’s lanky joints. Purple hair tickled her nostrils as she tried to memorize the older girl’s scent. The next morning, fragments of purple hair littered Miyako’s bathroom floor as silver shears glinted in Hikari’s grasp.

Miyako shook her head free from intrusive thoughts and focused on the task at hand: cleaning up this pig’s sty. Underneath a pair of panties (the front of them read _‘Wednesday_ ’ even though it was a Friday) a scrap of paper, no bigger than the fortunes that come in cookies, mocked her.

“Ugh!” she exclaimed, her voice hoarse from disuse. “Why couldn’t I have gotten Ken-kun’s name instead? This just makes everything so difficult.”

A series of short knocks on the doorframe altered the bedroom’s occupant of her sister’s arrival.

“What seems to be the problem, imoto-chan? I could hear you over the television.” Chizuru questioned, a twinge of annoyance settling in the air.

Miyako regarded her sister in a way she never had: silently. Chizuru was seventeen, slim, and conventionally pretty (everything Miyako hoped to be in the future), but her younger sister to learn that age did not translate into wisdom, or maturity, or anything else adults insisted upon.

“Well, nee-san, I don’t really consider interrupting a rerun of _Ouran High School Host Club_ to be an issue.”

A snort registered in her ears, but the bespeckled girl had lost interest in their conversation, turning towards the mess under her bed as a distraction.

“You know, if it’s about a boy, I can help.” and if Miyako did not know better, she would have mistaken the soft undertones in her voice for pity.

“What do you know about boys, Chizuru? You’ve only had, like, one boyfriend, and even then, he turned out to have a crush on onii-chan.” The elder girl flinched, and quickly withdrew her offer. Regret burned in Miyako’s stomach, and she offered a weak apology.

“I’m sorry, nee-san. Ever since the hospital, I haven’t really been myself, you know? And I’m really stressed out because we have this Secret Santa thing going on, and I really wanted to pull Ken-kun’s name because it would give me the perfect excuse to buy him that book he really wants. Now, my plans of grand romance are smothered because I had to go and pull Jyou-senpai’s name instead.”

Chizuru’s eyes, once the shape of smooth almonds, now occupied most of her face, not expecting her sister to confide in her. _When was the last time we even talked?_

“Couldn’t you just buy Ichijouji-san a gift anyway?”

“Uh, no! What if he figured out my feelings for him? Secret Santa would have made this whole thing more casual. What if whoever pulled his name gets him a better gift? Or worse, what he falls in love with them and gets married and I’m only invited to their wedding out of guilt?”

Her older sister’s chuckle struck a chord within her chest, and Miyako couldn’t help but let her own lively giggle join it. “Wow, I sound crazy. Let’s pretend this conversation never happened.”

“What about this ‘Jyou-senpai’ you mentioned? Is he cute? What are you going to get him?”

Miyako pondered her eldest friend, and silently deemed the “cute” description to not be a good fit for the medical student. “Haphazard” might have been better suited.

“Don’t get your hopes up, Onee-san. I heard it through the grapevine that he has a girlfriend, though I’m not sure that she is…real.” Miyako sighed, and her sister translated it into a call for help.

The youngest Inoue continued to fiddle with the mess under her bed, sifting through dirty socks and an assortment of yaoi manga. “I have absolutely no idea what to get him. He is just so square! He is supposedly the most reliable out of all of us, but whenever we need him, he intentionally ignores our calls and focuses solely on his school work. “

Chizuru wisely remained silent, knowing her sister could vent to a brick wall and find some satisfaction. Biding her time, she twiddled with the charms on her cell phone and waited for Miyako to continue.

“Can you believe that? There are murderous Digimon on the loose, my friends and I go _missing_ for weeks, and Jyou-senpai is content with typing medical dissertations.” Miyako looked up expectantly, hoping her sister had the ‘Boy Expertise’ that most girls develop after middle school. Much to her dismay, Chizuru only looked at her with confusion.

“Try asking one of your friends, like Hikari-san or Tachikawa-san. “she provided, walking away towards their family room; the _Host Club_ was waiting for her.

Her feathery purple hair whipped around her head, searching for her cell phone in the midst of the mess she created. After locating it beside a bowl of what she can only assume used to be ramen, her bony fingers wasted no time in dialing a number she had memorized many years ago.

\--

Despite his meager age, Hida Iori could read people much better than he let on. This uncanny ability, however, did not assist him as he ran up the three flights of stairs that separated his apartment from his friend’s.

It wasn’t all his fault, really. He picked up on her first ring, not accustomed to her calling him in the middle of the day. Her voice sounded panicked, a sound he only heard whenever his nightmares focused on the more recent events. As he stood, hands on his knees as he hunched over for air, in the bedroom Miyako shared with her sister, he couldn’t resist the slight annoyance that stemmed from her less-than-important ‘dilemma’.

“Miyako-san,” he started, lungs hungrily gasping for air, “couldn’t this have waited? I’m missing my mother’s Tuna Melt Surprise.”

“No! This is a _tragedy_! Out of all the eleven names in that god-forsaken hat, what were the odds of me pulling Jyou-senpai?”

“You know that you weren’t supposed to tell anybody else who you got; it will ruin the surprise!” His cheeks flared with agitation, though his elder friend also suspected from exertion.

‘ _He must get that chastising tone from his mother,'_ thought Miyako, ' _because there is no way that he would be talking to_ me _with that tone of voice.'_

“Well, since I told you, why don’t you tell me who you got? Come on, you know you want to.” The suggestive flex of her brow made Iori visibly uncomfortable, twiddling his thumbs to avoid direct eye contact.

“Miyako-san, you know I can’t do that; it would be dishonest.”

“Oh,” she began suggestively, “did you get Hikari-chan?” Her young friend’s blush deepened, and she giggled, poking fun at the slight crush she noticed that he had developed. He wasn’t the only Chosen that had fallen under her spell; Miyako took note of the cerulean that nearly followed her friend’s every move. Daisuke, much to his nature, moved on quickly, even once asking herself out on a whim. One swift kick to his groin settled that conversation, and Miyako brought herself back to the present.

“N-No, that’s not it. I just don’t wish to go behind Mimi-senpai’s back like that; you know what my grandfather thought about lying.” The mention of his late relative cast a forlorn shadow across his young features.

“Iori, out of the few Chosen that I remain close to, you know Jyou-senpai the best. Is there any advice you could give me?”

“Well, have you checked the group chat? We all sent our messages yesterday; his should be in there somewhere.”

A quick rummage through her desk proved to be fruitful: in a matter of minutes, she was scrolling through a flurry of messages, her eyes seeking the aforementioned sender.

Her head fell back in an exasperated sigh; a performance worthy of her school’s drama department. “He’s hopeless!”

At her friend’s questioning glance, Miyako relented. “He enjoys ‘homework, laundry, and friends’ and dislikes ‘one-ply toilet paper and wide-ruled paper’.” Her voice deepened comically in what Iori assumed was a mock-representation of Jyou’s voice.

“You could always get him something he could use, like new pencils or a train-fare gift card.”

“Iori, don’t be dense. This is supposed to be personal. We are supposed to be ‘expanding our horizons’ and ‘getting to know each other better’ and whatever else Mimi-chan said. I can’t let him open up a pack of pencils in front of everyone. Imagine how that would make me look!”

Iori's green eyes shone first, in confusion, and after, disappointment. “Did you ask me for my help so that you could get Jyou-senpai a gift he would like? Or to make yourself look good in front of everyone else?”

Anger flared in Miyako’s veins after Iori’s revelation. “I cannot believe I actually thought a _kid_ could help me. Just go home.” She huffed, crossing her arms around her chest.

Silently, her young friend stormed towards the entrance of the apartment, and quietly shut the door behind him. The sound of the ‘click’ deflated the emotions that simmered in her chest, leaving the lavender-hair girl feeling empty.

She hadn’t had an outburst in so long that she thought she outgrew them. Recent happenings were proven otherwise, and her stomach acid churned in guilt. _‘Iori was only trying to help,’_ she reasoned, _‘but he has never been so outspoken before.’_

Her sister shook her head in disappointment; Miyako was known for being feisty, but her little friend had only the best intentions. Besides, he was correct in assuming that his bespeckled friend mostly craved the approval of their odd little group.

_‘If Jyou-senpai actually made an effort to connect with us, maybe this wouldn’t be so difficult!’_

Dusting off her jeans, Miyako stood up and made her way to the kitchen. “Miyako,” Chizuru butted in, her eyes never straying from the anime that danced across the television, “maybe instead of getting mad at Kido-san for being distant, you should make an effort to get to know him.”

Half of a rice ball hung from her lips, and a sharp inhale resulted in her lungs being unceremoniously hacked up.

“Whatever.” She grumbled, shoving her feet into her shoes, rice ball left unfinished on the table.

\--

The trek to Odaiba Park was lonely, the wind being Miyako’s only company. Despite her extroverted personality, she reveled in this private time of reflection.

Everything was a reminder of Before and During. Snow crunching under her boots reminded her of the snap of Ken’s ribs s Daisuke was thrown against him; Alphamon did not preserve life. Children’s laughter transformed into her own, maniacal laughter that echoed off the small tube that encased her.

Even her bathwater, which she once preferred scalding, now remained luke-warm; she was often reminded of pools of blood (much too large) and the taste of copper in her mouth. She knew the others were having a difficult time adjusting; the circles under Ken’s eyes only continued to grow. Daisuke’s fingers trembled as his eyes stared vacantly into the distance. Iori had only mentioned his nightmares once, but it had been enough. They were all broken and struggling and drowning in their thoughts. This adventure had been much worse than the last one; they no longer viewed trauma from a child’s perspective.

Her heart raced in her chest; air forced its way out of her throat. She should talk to someone about this, but who? There was no one to turn to, no one to rely on.

Sneakers, worn from endless walks to school and battles in a world that was not her own, turned the corner, letting lavender hair fly in the wind. Her destination was consciously unclear, but the strain on her calf muscles distracted her from remembering.

Feet flew down the pavement, and her arms flung wildly at her sides. Her world was seen from narrowed eyes, but then her shoulder made swift contact with _something._ A scream erupted from her throat, startling the strangers around her.

Instinct took over, and her foot swung out from underneath her, knocking her assailant on their knees. Their head knocked on the pavement, the thud resenting in Miyako’s mind.

“M-Miyako-san?” An oddly familiar voice questioned, pain seeping through their voice.

 _‘Someone is crying’,_ she idly thought, not realizing that it was herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: What is your favorite pairing? I want to write some one-shots, but I need pairing inspiration!


	6. Of Courage and Friendlier Courage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey! I broke my computer a week ago, and just got it fixed! Then, the internet was down for a week! I'm so sorry that it took so long for me to update. Also, Happy (late) Odaiba Memorial Day!

As Miyako grappled with the Mystery Man, across town, Daisuke was grappling with his own demons.

Motomiya Jun was obnoxious. It was in the way she attempted to sway her hips in seduction and her smile that was just-too-wide. Mostly, it was in the way she asked her younger brother for his hair gel _thirty-six_ times in a row.

“Onee-san, if you do not leave my bedroom in approximately three seconds, I will throw unwashed athletic cup up your nostrils.” He teeth were ground further into his skull, the sound nearly becoming audible.

“Well,” she huffed out indignantly, “ _somebody_ must be on their period.”

Daisuke’s eyes rolled backward before kindly reminding the retreating burgundy hair to “ _shut the door behind you!_ ”

The doorframe shook from her efforts, and his eyes rolled further back. There was a point where he almost missed his sister. However, that had been when the only object standing between his intestines and the forest floor was a thin, green, school-issued tie.

A half-deflated football, hidden under a solid sheet of dust, caught the interest of his mahogany eyes. Despite his abysmal grade in his writing course, the symbolism burned like acid in his stomach.

Rolling onto his worn bed (his feet nearly hung off the edge), the fourteen-year-old’s fingers flitting across his D-Terminal, determination set in his eyebrows. If he had to participate in something as _stupid_ as Secret Santa, he might as well as try to do well. (He tried to do his best to swallow his pride, but swallowing is hard to do when you’ve had a tube in your stomach for two months.)

_Taichi-san probably wouldn’t like anything I got him, anyway._

Goggles glinted from their perch in half-full dirty clothes hamper, eliciting an audible groan from the room’s occupant. He wished he had the will to throw them away, to toss them over the edge of a cliff or into the inky depths of the lake, but he could never bring himself to do so.

It also didn’t help that despite all the methods Daisuke used in an attempt to distinguish himself from his senpai, comparisons were always made. He was always “more temperamental than Taichi” or “just as dense as Taichi.” Towards the ends of elementary school, the comparisons only grew, expanding to encompass Takeru’s brother as well; the older Chosen often made jabs about how the Crest of Friendship wasn’t the best fit and how he should try to be more like Yamato.

It didn’t matter that he led his teams (both football and Chosen) to victories time and time again, or that for the first time in a long, long time, he prayed to every deity he knew of to keep Ken from becoming paralyzed or Miyako from bleeding out or Iori from his broken ribs puncturing his lungs.

Did Taichi do that? _Could_ Taichi do that? _‘You know damn good and well he would,’_ his subconscious murmured, and Daisuke cursed his Crest of Friendship.

His dark eyes settled onto his mentor’s message sandwiched between Yamato’s and Sora’s.

**To: Everyone**

**From: Yagami Taichi**

**Body: helo evry1, sry this is l8. i think agumon hid this last nite bc it kept wakin him up. i think u all shud no wat i like n stuff, but here is a list: ongiri, football, being in charge** 😊 **, good music (not knife of ramen or whatever, they suk), and cool random things you find by the check out aisles. i don’t like sassy little sisters or computers or anything like that. can’t w8 2 c u all soon!**

The grammar alone was enough to give the young brunette an all-encompassing headache, but he had to shake is head multiple times to ensure that he was, in fact, not having a brain aneurism. _What the hell am I supposed to get him?_

He toyed with the idea of asking his friends for assistance, but he wasn’t sure who to ask: Hikari was out of the question as Taichi’s younger sister; he couldn’t risk her accidentally slipping him the information.

Jyou and Koushirou were probably too with work or school or anything else to be of any real help.

 _‘It would be nice to spend some quality time with Sora or Mimi,’_ his painfully adolescent mind wandered off, teetering dangerously close to ‘fantasy’ rather than ‘reality’.

Yamato, despite being rather pleasant to converse with, was too moody and intimidating when he was focused. Daisuke once made the mistake of asking him to tutor him in mathematics. His friend’s icy blue eyes cut through his textbook, not unlike his partner Digimon’s fiery attack. Daisuke nearly pissed himself when Yamato snatched his abysmal test scores from his hands, and vowed to never ask Yamato for help, unless in battle. 

Miyako already had plans with Iori, so asking the duo was out of the question. Besides, the youngest Chosen primarily spoke to their smaller group, only interacting with the older six when spoken to directly.

 _‘Takeru-kun and Ken-kun it is, then.’_ Grunting, he pushed himself off of his groaning mattress and haphazardly gathered his essentials, shoving his Digivice in his cargo pants at the last second.

Out in the corridor, Jun’s vibrant voice echoed off the living room walls.

“Sumire-san! Don’t be so dirty-minded! You know Yamato-kun is not that type of guy…” her voice trailed off into ear-drum bursting giggles, leaving it up to Daisuke’s imagination to conjure (disturbing, sickening, slightly pornographic) images of what the childhood friends were discussing.

“Onee-san, I need the phone,” he grumbled, worn sneaker tapping relentlessly on the linoleum.

“Um, can you ask _nicely_?” A smirk settled its way onto her glossy lips; Daisuke cringed at the globs of lip gloss that formed in between her lips. He prayed that those globs would glue her lips shut.

He managed, through gritted teeth and a fierce scowl, to appease his beast of a sister, and he reaped the rewards of his labor in two brief rings.

“Moshi Moshi, Takaishi residence. Who is calling?”

The voice, too feminine to belong to Takeru, had an edge of impatience. His mother must be on her way to the office. “

It’s just Motomiya Daisuke. Is Takeru around, perchance?”

Her voiced brightened considerably as she replied. “Sure thing! Sweetie, you have a phone call!” Daisuke snickered at the term of endearment and would make sure to tease his friend about it at a later time.

Takeru’s voice wafted towards his ears, and at the audible _click_ of the receiver, Daisuke made his way out of his apartment.

\--

Upon reaching the train station, mahogany hair searched for the contrasting pair: a blonde and the raven-haired fellow they were waiting for. Spotting Takeru near the loading dock, he shoved his way through the hordes of people.

Usually, a task like this would have been easier; there had never been this many people in this particular Odaiba station before. Following the intense battles of months prior, most train stations in the islands of Tokyo had to be rebuilt, leaving only four or so stations available for use.

Focused on his destination, Daisuke didn’t notice the thin fingers curling around his shoulder. His back made a quick, resonant thud with the grimy cement. The stockier boy’s air rushed from his lungs with a small, audible _oof_ , leaving his companion chuckling.

Two pairs of sneakers circled his halo of hair, and four eyes gleamed with mischief as they smirked from above.

“Very funny, guys. Could you at least help me up?” Ken reached out and hoisted his friend up, smiling at the memory of catching him off guard. Takeru was no help, opting to hunch himself over in laughter.

Sunlight filtered through the stairways as the trio slowly made their way up, conversation hindering their progress.

“It’s been so long since I’ve hung out with guys my own age,” Takeru stated, eyes narrowing as the sunlight assaulted his eyes.

“I’ve missed you both. It sucks that I live so far away from everyone, but thank you both for inviting me! A lot of times, the others don’t bother because of the distance.”

“Ken-kun, you’re, like, one of the best friends I have ever had, so shut up.” Daisuke retorted.

The group walked in contemplative silence, enjoying the brisk, winter air and each other’s company. A slow growl interrupted their train of thoughts, and Takeru rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Haha, I had just woken up when Daisuke called. The last time I ate was dinner last night.”

Glancing at his watch, Daisuke was shocked to see that it was already past noon and ushered his friends to follow the smell of a local ramen shop. A small bell alerted the clerk of their entrance, and three pairs of rosy cheeks settled into a booth. The boy genius and his hot-headed friend sat shoulder-to-shoulder, leaving Takeru to settle into the seat directly across from the duo.

“Kon'nichiwa! What can I get you guys to drink?” A perky waitress interrupted their conversation, and after ordering three oolong teas, left with a wink and a swing in her long, dark ponytail.

“Listen, I am all for the French cuisine, but why do all those people talk like they have a permanent lougie in their throats?” Daisuke said, aiming his smirk towards his blonde companion.

“I will have you know,” Takeru interjected, putting up a wounded front to cover up his laughter, “that my ancestors will haunt you for the rest of your insignificant life for comparing the _language of love_ to _phlegm_.”

Ken snorted, eliciting uninhibited laughter from his friends. The snort slowly evolved into a chuckle at the sight of Daisuke’s embarrassed cheeks, and soon, tears formed in the corner of his dark eyes.

Any retort he could muster was interrupted as Perky (nickname courtesy of himself) gently set down their drinks. Composing themselves enough to order, the boys managed to order their meals.

“So,” Takeru began, “what’s going on, Daisuke-kun? You’ve been tense all afternoon.”

Resting his elbows on the tabletop, the boy in questioned leaned forward, his normally robust voice lowering dramatically. “Promise you won’t tell _anyone._ ”

With furrowed brows, his friends nodded earnestly.

“Well,” he started, the uncertainty in his voice worrying his companions, “I got Taichi-san’s name in the Christmas thing, I have no idea what to do.” He paused for a moment, “And before you ask, his list was of no help.”

“That list was barely Japanese,” Ken muttered under his breath.

“It’s just Tachi-san; why not get him a packet of that instant ramen he’s been obsessed with?” Takeru inputted. “Besides, you guys are the same person. Just get him something you would like to get.”

Daisuke’s immediate scowl cast a shadow on his demeanor. He sat back into the booth, arms crossing his chest, only partially obscuring the _Knife of Day_ logo on his shirt.

The smell of roasted peppers and noodles caught their attention, and a sleek, blonde ponytail excitedly sat their food down, leaving them with red cheeks and a strategically placed wink.

In between the bites (and occasional slurping) of noodles, Daisuke relayed his biggest obstacle when getting paired with Taichi: their unfair comparison. “Sure,” he inhaled his fried egg, “we are a lot alike, but I’m a different person. We’ve been through different things and had to lead two very different battles. It’s not fair that everyone lumps us together.”

“I understand your point. My parents subconsciously compared me and my oniisan.” Ken interjected. He paused, and when Daisuke showed no outward signs of interrupting, continued.

“Osamu-san was a true child genius, and after his passing, our parents expected me to be just like him. I wasn’t as strong as you, Daisuke-kun; I couldn’t defend my own personality. But you do. You prove every day that you are a unique person with your own attributes. You are equally as valuable to our team as Taichi-san is.”

Silence followed his speech, and the Chosen of Kindness decided to leave his friends with their thoughts, and happily tucked into his warm meal.

Noticing the lull in the conversation, Perky struck again, refilling their drinks and leaning over the table just a little too far. The boys, being raised by four respectable big-brother figures, averted their eyes until the threat passed.

“Maybe you could get him something that you both enjoy. It could help bridge those feelings for you. By giving him something that you both like, it could be your own olive branch of peace.” Takeru added thoughtfully, pushing his empty bowl in front of him.

A metaphorical lightbulb cast Daisuke’s mind in a clarifying light: he knew exactly what to get his senpai.

“Bro, I just got a perfect idea, and before you ask, no, I will not tell you my ingenious plan.” He smirked, confidence returning tenfold.

The pair only laughed, and the three of them paid their bills (all of which had Perky’s number scrawled in large, loopy handwriting), and began their search for the perfect gifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I used to hate Daisuke's characterization, but writing him proves to be very nice! What do you all think?


	7. Of Love and Sincere Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I just started my junior year of college, so I am so sorry for the late update!

A hand, decidedly masculine, gripped her elbow. White spots clouded her vision, and the lavender-haired girl couldn’t tell if her glasses were still on their perch or if they had fallen in the tumble.

“Please! Let me go! Pl-” a violent, strangled sob interrupted her pleas, and the man stood, dark eyes widened in shock.

“Miyako-san, can you stand?”

Her mind, cluttered with so much _Other_ , didn’t register her name coming from the supposed stranger's lips.

Onlookers turned away, deciding that the young girl was in relatively familiar hands. Her knees, scraped from the tumble, shook as she rose to her feet. Hazel eyes trained themselves on the other person’s shiny dress shoes, and dread fell into her stomach like an anvil.

Without looking up, Miyako clumsily bowed, uttering a quiet “Gomen'nasai.”

“Miyako-san, you don’t have to bow to me. Is everything alright?”

Finally, her eyes drifted upward. Dressed in a pair of khakis and a stormy suit jacket, Kido Jyou stood sheepishly in front of her, hand rubbing his neck (a feeble attempt at calming his own anxieties, no doubt.)

“Oh! It’s you, Jyou-senpai. I’m sorry for running into you like that.” The words rushed out without much processing; her mind was elsewhere. Her heart continued to pound beneath her sweater, and blood brought an uncomfortable warmth to her cheeks.

“You’re fine! I just want to make sure that nothing is wrong.” Concern glittered in his eyes, and the lavender-haired girl softened her resolve.

“Everything is _perfecto!_ ” With thin fingers extended in resemblance of a gun, Miyako looked almost twelve: a happy, carefree, enigma. Jyou, despite his history of cluelessness, could spot the cracks in her façade: the smile, though bright, was stretched across her mouth too far; her knees still shook, he assumed partly from the cold but mostly stemmed for the invisible assailant she was running from.

 _‘Invisible may not be the right word.’_ He mused, studying his friend more attentively. Though she had relaxed from her earlier pose, tenseness settled around her unusually dim eyes. The dark circles underneath spoke of restless nights. In the brief second that he held her hand when helping her rise, he noticed her bloody cuticles and nails that were bitten into nubs. Arms crossed her chest, and Jyou knew she was still embarrassed by her…outburst of sorts.

Thinking quickly, Jyou devised a small plan. It wouldn’t be anything grand or robust like Taichi or Daisuke or even Yamato could carry out, but it would suffice the purpose just as well.

“Well, I’m glad I ran into you! My classes have finished for today, and I am absolutely famished. Would you mind grabbing a bite to eat with me?” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “My treat, of course.”

Miyako tentatively bit the fleshiest part of her cheek. The opinions weighed in her mind, and her slight deliberation trailed her feet beside her senpai’s, searching for whatever that nice smell was.

\--

While Jyou and Miyako settled themselves into a booth, Takenouchi Sora made her rounds, messaging each Chosen privately, longing to make sure they were okay.

Piyomon nestled into her shoulder, and the red-haired girl smiled, forever grateful for the smaller moments she and her partner got to share.

The quietness of her room (her mother was busy at the shop; the holidays always came with an influx of orders) allowed her mind to drift between topics with ease.

Her thoughts would settle on Yamato and his distance towards her and rest ( _‘Why hasn’t he answered my calls? Is he losing interest? Did I do something? Did_ Taichi-kun _do something?’_ ) As of late, the rockstar took great strides in avoiding his girlfriend. After the event with Meiko, Yamato became even more introverted, going as far as to cancel their dates and send her calls straight to voicemail. The mention of his best friend, however, sent her train of thought up a different track.

Brows furrowed in worry ( _‘How is Taichi-kun holding up? Is Hikari-chan still upset with him?’_ )

Piyomon shifted in her slumber, evidently sensing Sora’s worries. A gentle smirk graced the girl’s lips, recalling a pair of blushing cheeks ( _‘Is there something going on with Takeru-kun and Taichi-kun’s precious little sister?’_ ) The thought didn’t seem as far-fetched as before.

Her mind focused then on Takeru and wondered idly how his basketball practices were going. His next big game was circled in a fluorescent highlighter on Sora’s bird-themed wall calendar.

Daisuke was next; his demeanor has changed so drastically since Before. Instead of cheekiness and mirth, his eyes were dull. A seriousness had set itself in his broadening shoulders. Sora had half the mind to call him, just to hear his voice. Glancing at the clock proved for it to be the busiest time of the day for most people; the call would have to wait.

Jyou was stressed, with his exams drawing nearer each day. Sora hoped that he was eating enough and fell asleep at a decent hour.

Mimi was frazzled as ever, trying to plan Christmas parties and manage her growing feeling towards a different red-head of the group. Texting Mimi at this point would be pointless. The pair already had plans for coffee later that week and their favorite local shop.

Miyako seemed to be doing as well as Daisuke. Her vibrant personality and quick comebacks were replaced without of character irritability. Her lavender hair hadn’t been seen with many of the other Chosen, save for the times the youngest six reconvened. Sora was relieved that she pulled the young girl’s name from her own, ragged hat. _‘Maybe I can get to the bottom of what is going on with her.’_

Iori and Ken remained quiet and respectful around their older friends. _‘The only ones who know how bad they are hurting are probably those closest to them,’_ the Chosen of Love mused, absentmindedly stroking her partner’s feathers.

Her back rested against the headboard of her bed; her feet tangled themselves in folds of pastel duvet.

“Piyomon,” Sora began, gently nestling her bird-like partner awake, “what do you think of Miyako-san?”

Large eyes blinked open, and ocean blue met hazel.

“Wadduya mean?” the small Digimon questioned, words slurred with slumber.

“Well, I’m not sure what to get her for Christmas. I haven’t truly had a decent conversation with her in about a year. With all these recent events, she seems even further away than before.”

“Hmm, that’s not like Miyako-chan at all! I know that Hawkmon is worried about her. She has all kinds of bad dreams and wakes up crying. Once, he tried to comfort her, and as soon as he touched her back, Miyako-chan went into a fit!”

 _‘She never mentioned any of that when I called.’_ Instead of calling Miyako directly, as that would have been too confrontational for a serious subject, Sora decided to call her closest and best friend.

After two short rings, an airy, angelic voice greeted her ears. “Moshi moshi.”

“Hey, Hikari-chan. I’m sorry for calling without notice.” Picking up on background conversation filtering through the brunette’s speakers, Sora quickly added, “Is now a good time? I can always call back!”

“I’m free to talk now if Taichi-san would please turn down that awful show.” The younger girl added pointedly. A goggle-headed sigh was loud enough to be heard on Sora’s end, but the disappearance of white noise clued her in on his compliance.

“Have you talked to Miyako-chan recently?”

Hikari hummed thoughtfully, and Sora could imagine the slight crease in her brow. _‘We both worry far too much.’_

“After…everything that happened, I talked to her at least once a day. Recently, she hasn’t been around a lot. I know she works at her family’s convenience store and is studying for her entrance exams, but she used to always make time for her friends.”

Piyomon, listening intently to the conversation, nodded solemnly. “I’m sorry to ask you, Hikari-chan. This isn’t something you should have to worry about.”

“But it is!” the younger girl protested, voice uncharacteristically shrill. “She is one of my best friends, and I know close to _nothing_ about what she is going through. I’ve tried to call her and message her, but they always go unanswered. At school, I tried to confront her, but she panicked and had to be excused from class. The worst part is that even when she squeezes in time to be with us, she never looks us in the eye. _None_ of them do. What have we done to help them? To support them since they’ve been back? _Nothing_.”

Her tone was harsh, and the implication of her words trickled shame into Sora’s heart.

“I-I had no idea it had gotten that bad. Hontōni mōshiwakenai, Hikari-chan.”

What had once been a fit of breathless anger had calmed into bated breath. “It’s not your fault, Sora-san. It’s nobody’s fault that these things happened, but we all must be held accountable for not being there when our friends needed us most.”

\--

The lunch was awkward at best. Every slurp echoed off the walls of empty air, and the _tap tap tap_ of Miyoko’s shoe resembled the jackhammer that droned outside.

Jyou droned on, filling the silence in his anxious way, drifting from one topic of conversation to another. Long hair flung over one shoulder, she listened sparingly. Her food had long gone cold, but the atmosphere was pleasant enough. Miyako was not ready to go back home after the argument with Iori.

“…Miyako-chan?”

_‘Shit, he was talking.’_

“Hai, Jyou-senpai?”

He paused, and Miyako calculated his emotions through his eyebrows, a trick Takeru once taught her.

“I know we aren’t as close as the others, but I want you to know I am always here for you.” His gray eyes turned stormy and refused to meet hers. The quiet blush was the only indicator of his embarrassment.

The soon-to-be high schooler was powerless to the crease that furrowed deep in her brow. _‘Yeah, always there for someone unless he has homework or an exam or literally any other responsibility.’_

Immediate shock registered in her senpai’s face and hurt glazed his eyes. Her stomach seemingly dropped into her intestines; her pulse hammered in her ears. Shame bathed her cheeks in crimson.

A feeble cough failed to cover the quiver in Jyou’s reply, “It’s no secret that you all feel that way, but I’m trying my best to do what is right.”

“What is _right_? You have no clue what _'right'_ is! Tell me something, Jyou-senpai: will there be any hospitals open if you continue to let your friends defend the _entire fucking world_ without your help? Is a degree worth the fate of _both_ worlds? The fate of your _friends_ that would _and have_ dropped anything to help you?”

Her voice silenced the small café, wispy bangs clung to the enraged sweat on her forehead. Hazel eyes lit with the fire of a thousand suns, and Miyako swiftly ended her opponent. “Gomamon deserves better than that; he deserves better than you!”

The screech of Jyou’s metal chair startled the patrons around the pair. For the first time in her life, Miyako saw the fury in her senpai’s features.

Mouth taunt, the Chosen of Reliability gritted out one last parting statement, “You have no clue what I have to deal with, Inoue-san.”

Throwing several yen onto the table, the dark-haired male swiftly her baffled (and humiliated), pink lips open in surprise.

Noodles remained uneaten, and a waitress would later grumble to herself about "the wastefulness of that generation." In the trashcan, mold would accumulate until those noodles, symbolic of a crumbling friendship, would be erased from existence. The images, however, would burn behind Miyako's eyelids.

( _Translation:_ life goes on.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sora is so difficult to write, and I am so sorry for all phone calls in this fanfiction. My mental health is declining, but writing things for Digimon makes me happy. Thank you all so much for whatever support you have given me. Are there any ways I can make this story better?


	8. Of Hope and Kindness

Takeru Takaishi liked Ken Ichijouji, he did. Saving the world with someone ensured that the two would always have common ground, but they just weren’t the closest of friends. The occasional video game tournament and birthday invitation couldn’t quite bridge the gap caused by harsh words and an even harsher whip.

He had forgiven the raven-haired friend long ago, but a bridge of tenseness remained. Yamato had once suggested that maybe the two could never become close because of how similar they were, and many times, Takeru had to agree. But it was also in the way that blue sunglasses glinted in his nightmares.

It was in the way that Takeru woke up screaming, memories of Chimeramon chasing close behind his eyelids.

Just like himself and Hikari, the similarities between himself and Ken ran deep, both having to watch their partner dissipate into thin air (both waking up in a cold sweat, desperately searching the dark for their little friends). Most importantly, they both had stubborn older brothers.

Takeru knew little of Osamu; Ken preferred to keep his thoughts to himself, and if not, would only confide in Daisuke. During one of the many holiday parties thrown by Ken’s parents, the Chosen of Hope had many times focused on the framed pictures that lined their dining-room hall.

In the midst of Ken’s school pictures and soccer awards stood a lone portrait of the son that no longer was. The memorial photo, though morbid, did not feel out of place. What did feel out of place, however, was that there were not any pictures of the brothers together.

Takeru had never asked Ken about it, fearful of appearing nosy or meddlesome. Even though he would never jump at the chance to take a photo with Yamato, there were many times when various family members pushed the pair together for a quick snap.

Ken didn’t have any of that, and the blonde’s heart felt heavy. He couldn’t imagine a life without Yamato, or his mood swings.

The White Slip of Fate (a term coined by Takeru, of course) had brought the two together, and Takeru was determined to give Ken something meaningful.

\--

Picking up his silver cell phone, a memorized phone number seemingly dialed itself. Takeru’s foot bounced in place as the ringing drawled out. A warm voiced greeted him, and the blonde boy quickly lapsed into conversation with an old friend.

Hanging up, Takeru grabbed his essentials and headed out. His mother wouldn’t be home for hours, making it easy for the fourteen-year-old to come and go as he pleased.

An hour later, squished in a too-small booth with a couple of too-tall boys, Takeru chuckled in between bites of noodles for the second time that week. With school on break for the holiday season, the blonde teenager was eager to soak up as much “guy time” before term started back up.

“Daisuke, that is _not_ how any of this works! I would have thought someone in your family would have explained the reproductive system!” after a brief pause, Ken continued, “You even have an older sister who doesn’t know how to shut her mouth.”

Cheeks flooding scarlet were Daisuke’s only response, and Takeru held back a laugh for his sake.

“Well, it’s not _my_ fault that my sister is an absolute bit-”

“Yamato explained the whole process to me, man. What did you think happened?”

“I don’t know, dude! I don’t own a _vagina._ Also, Ken, who told _you?_ It’s not like your brother did.”

A pair of chopsticks clattered onto the table, and the screech of a chair echoed through the nearly-empty restaurant. Ken brows furrowed in anger, furious blue eyes trailed on Daisuke.

“How _dare_ you?” he gritted out, fists quaking by his sides. “It was just a joke, Motomiya-san. You were supposed to by my _friend_.”

The informality slapped the brunette in the face, jaw slack. Takeru could only watch the situation unfold, shocked by the sudden turn of events. Heat radiated off on Ken; the chair he occupied laid listless on the floor.

“Ken-kun,” he tried, but when the eyes (the Kaiser eyes) focused on him, any soothing word Takeru had dried in his throat. A tiny scar, no bigger than a paper clip, throbbed near his left eye.

Ken’s face began to crumble, despair peaking through his stony stare. Quickly, just as if he were on a football field, raven hair dashed out the door, a cheery jingle sounding in his wake. Heavy silence blanketed the table, and Takeru could hear his heart pounding in his ears. Bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down, determined to maintain what little composure he had left.

Gray storm clouds settled above the young leader, and for one of the first times in his life, Takeru was at a loss for words.

Heart hammering in his chest, he took a long look at his abrasive friend. “Daisuke-kun, how could you say something like that? You of all people know what Osamu-san and his death meant to Ken-kun.”

Head hung in shame, Daisuke sat silent, lamenting in his carelessness. “I fucked up, man. Sometimes I forget that he didn’t get the same ‘older sibling” treatment as we did.”

Takeru let the atmosphere settle around them for a bit longer before his soft voice cut through the restaurant clatter.

“You know better than I do that there are no excuses for saying what you did. If there is anything I know about Ken-kun, it’s that he needs time to himself right now. Give him time to cool off, and then try to talk it out.”

Determined to make up for his friend’s mistake, Takeru left Daisuke to sulk and headed towards the shopping centers near the quaint noodle restaurant.

\--

The stores were packed with people, and the smell of cinnamon assaulted Takeru’s nostrils. Without Patamon to keep him company, he found himself quite lonely doing his Christmas shopping alone.

Not one to let things deter him for long, Takeru’s attention was quickly focused neon script distinguishing the “One Hour Photo” kiosk in the midst of the crowd. Following the trail of blue fluorescence, his azure eyes fell upon an array of picture frames, photo books, and various customizable objects.

A short _beep-beep_ of his cell phone deterred the boy from his find, alerting him of a message from his best friend.

Eyes scanning the message, his cheeks colored slightly.

**From: Hika-chan**

**Body: Hey, ‘Keru. What are you doing right now?**

A soft smile appeared at his childhood nickname. Typing swiftly, he slipped his phone into his pocket and continued on his search for Ken’s Secret Santa gift.

**To: Hika-chan**

**Body: Doing some Christmas shopping in Decks. Why do you ask? Miss me already?**

Sifting through the assortment of frames, his hope deflated, nothing catching his eye. The brief thought of just buying whatever was coinvent flitted across his mind before being ruled out by common sense. _‘This needs to be special.’_

Another alert from his pocket deterred his attention once more, and he steered himself towards the smell of food. His last meal was interrupted, and if the growling of his stomach was any indicator, it was time for food.

Hikari’s message glittered up at him, and Takeru couldn’t contain the small laugh that bubbled to the surface.

**From: Hika-chan**

**Body: You wish! I was going to ask you to go shopping with me, seeing as Miyako-san won’t answer my calls, and Mimi would insist that I try on every single skirt that the mall has. You were just the next best choice.**

**To: Hika-chan**

**Body: Keyword being _best_. I’m about to grab a bite to eat if you would like to join me. I’ll even buy you one of those ice creams you like so much. **

Glancing up from his conversation, Takeru located a table relatively near the bulk of the restaurants in the food court, and patiently searched for his brunette best friend.

A flash of pink and the smell of vanilla wafted from behind him, and the Chosen of Light greeted Takeru with a cheery smile. “Where would you like to eat?”

The blonde boy pretended to ponder his response but watched as his best friend eyed the sweets stand a mere ten feet away.

Laughing at her obvious stare, the pair ordered their ice cream (vanilla for him, and always strawberry espresso for her), and began to walk aimlessly through the crowds of shoppers.

“Can you keep a secret, Hikari-chan?” Takeru asked in between bites. His eyes trailed his sneakers, worn from the most recent digital adventures.

A low hum was his only response, so the boy continued, desperately needing her advice.

“During the whole Secret Santa fiasco, I pulled the name of someone that I’m not super close with.” Hikari glanced up at him, curiosity flickering in her eyes. Becoming all too aware of how close their bodies were, Takeru shuffled on his heels, wanting to give her space.

Nevertheless, he persisted. “I want to get them something _personal_ , but should I do it at the cost of overstepping their personal boundaries?’

Hikari’s face remained thoughtful, the dancing of her spoon being the only indicator of her ponderance. Sending her companion, a knowing glance, her voice carried to his ears slowly.

“People appreciate kindness, Takeru-kun.”

Discarding their trash, the pair followed the trail of cerulean fluorescence once more, determination written across the Chosen of Hope’s face.

Calloused fingers searched through the array of picture frames, eyes looking closer than before. Takeru _was_ going to find the perfect frame, if not for Ken, then for Osamu.

His mind drifted towards the interrupted meal, and the anger on Ken’s face. The tenseness in his jaw, much too akin to that of the Kaiser’s, unsettled Takeru. _‘Are we all falling apart? How did three months change_ everything?’

And if he noticed the benevolent brunette’s eyes linger on a leather-bound photo book, no one had to know. Three months hadn’t changed _that_ much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This has taken too long for me to update. I am a junior in college, as well as the president of a sorority, so I have been very busy, but I am determined to finish this story before Christmas!


	9. Of Reliabilty and Friendly Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a reupload because I didn't like the one I posted.   
> Jyou struggles with Miyako and his Secret Santa

Jyou was not his brother. The abysmal test grade (one that would be added to a collection) branded his heart with despair. He had studied this time; he had studied _every_ time, and it still never seemed to be enough.

With a melancholy sigh, Jyou hoisted his worn messenger bag over his shoulder and shambled out of the classroom. Despite the obvious negative implications, being seated in the back row of the lecture hall had its perks and getting out of the door first so that no one could see your tears of shame was one of them.

His somber mood was only interrupted by the crisp air that kissed his cheeks as he exited the tall, brick building.

_‘I should have done better. I should have studied more. I had so much time last night, but I was so tired, but that is no excuse. I need to study more. I need to apply myself. I have to be better. I have t-‘_

Lavender hair tangled itself in his glasses, and the weight of a body sent him tumbling towards the icy cement. Familiar red sneakers tangled with shiny dress shoes, and Jyou vaguely registered someone screaming.

“Miyako?” he asked, his mouth coming to the conclusion faster than his mind.

A selfish fear gripped his heart with steely claws, afraid of sounding stupid or out-of-place if he tried to comfort his friend.

Her frantic breathing had yet to calm; her heartbeat too rapid to be healthy. Jyou stood shakily and attempted to stabilize Miyako on her feet. _‘She’s taller than I remember.’_

He almost snorted at himself but caught it at the last second _. ‘Everyone is taller if you never take the time to see them.’_

Jyou vaguely registered the words spewing from the young girl’s mouth but managed to respond. The words he strung together must have been comprehensible as Miyako’s heart rate slowed dramatically.

“Oh! It’s you, Jyou-senpai. I’m sorry for running into you like that.” Her voice sputtered, and if the pinkness in her cheeks was any indication, she was becoming unwell.

Quickly developing a plan ( _‘Taichi-san would be so much better than this. He is always the best at cheering people up.’_ ), Jyou quickly found himself seated in front of his companion in a quaint little restaurant.

\--

The Chosen of Reliability was not sure how his day could have gotten worse, but if the universe had taught him anything, it was that the worlds were constantly against his happiness.

His gray eyes settled on the sidewalk ahead of him, shoulders hunched in anger.

_‘First, my test grade. Then, Miyako-san berates me in front of complete strangers. She doesn’t even know how hard I work. She doesn’t know how horrible and guilty I feel every time I have to put my work before my friends.’_

Polished dress shoes drug the pavement, but Jyou was cautious as to not distract anyone’s attention. Silent tears made shiny tracks down his flushed cheek as he bent his neck forwards in hopes that a passerby wouldn’t notice.

_Briing! Briing!_

Muddled thoughts were interrupted by the metallic screeching of the flip phone nestled in the young man’s pockets. A familiar red head’s face adorned the screen, giving Jyou just a few seconds to gather his thoughts before flipping the screen upwards and pressing it to his ear.

“Moshi, moshi. Kido-san speaking.” His voice was thick, too thick. Sora was oddly empathetic with those she considered close. If it weren’t for his tone of voice, the out-of-place formality would have tipped her off that something was wrong.

“Jyou-senpai, is everything alright?” Her mothering tone almost enticed the tears to fall again, but a stern sniffle held them at bay.

“Uh, yeah, Sora-san. Everything is fine on my end. What about you? How are you feeling?”

Silence registered in the phone’s speaker for a moment, but to Jyou, expressed just how often Sora doesn’t get asked; she was always the one doing the asking.

“Oh! I’ve been good. I was just doing my routine checkup on everyone. We all seemed a little tense at the Secret Santa drawing. Are you sure you’re doing alright , Jyou-senpai?”

 _‘No, I’m not. My grades are dropping, and I’m stressed. Both of my brothers have been successful doctors, but I can’t. All of my friends hate me because I work too much, but it’s not like I have a choice. I wake in a cold sweat every night, expecting to hear Gomamon’s breathing, but every night I wake up to silence._ ’

“Yeah, Sora-san, everything is fine.” With a swift click, the phone was back in his jacket pocket, and he made his way through the crowded streets of Japan.

It wasn’t until Jyou had taken off his coat in the warmth of his apartment that he noticed the strip of white paper nestled under miscellaneous keys that were in his catch-all dish by the door. Sighing, he grabbed the piece in between his fingers and flicked it open.

In Mimi’s large, bubbly handwriting, Daisuke’s named glared up at the young man. _‘Do we even have anything in common?’_ Jyou callously thought. Tossing the piece of paper in the trash can, he undid his school tie, and plopped into bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow.

\--

Since buying his own apartment, Jyou found that waking up on his own was becoming more difficult. In elementary school, Shuu would bang on his door to make sure that he got ready in time.

Without his brother to keep him accountable, Jyou ignored his blaring alarm clock and snuggled deep into his covers. _‘Today’s Saturday, I can rest.’_

Jyou was mistaken. Rest only came to those that didn’t know Mimi Tachikawa. As soon as the hour struck noon, a metallic ringing clashed with the peaceful ocean breeze of his alarm clock. 

Eyes, half-lidded with sleep, shut in annoyance when they focused on the little picture that enraptured the screen. Accepting his fate, Jyou flipped the phone open and pressed it to his ear.

“Yaskdf,” he said, voice heavy and raspy with disuse.

“Well, I can see that somebody was still asleep!” Mimi’s bright tone felt like daggers to the young man’s eardrums, a feeling that all the Chosen know too well.

Getting a better grip on reality (and the Japanese language), Jyou retort was dripping in sarcasm, “To what do I owe this pleasure too, Tachikawa-san?”

A defiant tone, reminiscent of their first digital adventure, responded. “Oh, hush with those formalities! I am just making sure that you have been working no your Secret Santa gifts.”

 _‘Oops.’_ He thought. “Ah, well, um, of course I have. Just out of curiosity, when are we exchanging presents again?”

“You have one week.”

With that, Jyou said his goodbyes and sent a quick message to someone that knew Daisuke a lot better than he did.

\--

 _‘It’s funny,’_ Jyou mused _‘how two brothers can be so drastically different.’_

At a ramen shop, not too far from Odaiba High, the Ishida/Takaishi brothers sat cross from Jyou, one looking like sunshine while the other looked like rain.

Yamato’s sullen look was off-putting, even to his younger brother. It was almost as if Takeru could see the tension in his brother’s shoulders as his normal banter was replaced with idle chatter.

“Well, Jyou-senpai, why did you call us here?” Yamato asked, annoyance clear in his voice.

“I-Um Well, I-“the Rockstar cut him off, “Get on with it.”

“Aniki-san, don’t be so rude.” Takeru chat sized, softening Yamato’s glare only slightly.

Sending the younger blonde a small smile of gratitude, Jyou explained the predicament with Daisuke and how he believed he could never find a gift for someone so different than himself.

He expected advice or wisdom or even a comforting pat on the back. What he did not expect, however, was for the brothers to laugh. He did not expect them to laugh so hard that their faces would turn red and their eyes would prick with tears.

“What’s so funny?” the eldest of the three asked.

Surprisingly, it was the Chosen of Friendship that responded. “Jyou-senpai, you are smart. Maybe not as smart as Koushiro-san, but still smart.”

Jyou pretended to not be offended.

“So,” Yamato continued “how is it that you never noticed just how similar you and Daisuke-kun are?”

“Ah, um, what?” Confusion rattled in his brain. “How?”

The Chosen of Hope cocked one eyebrow at his companion’s ignorance. “You mean, you really don’t see it?”

Cheeks becoming flushed in embarrassment, the raven-haired boy could only shake his head in response. The young blonde continued.

“Well, firstly, you both just want what is best for people. Daisuke-kun would give up the entire digital world for his friends, and though you may put more thought into your actions, you would do anything to protect those that you love.”

Jyou’s cheeks reddened even deeper from indirect praise, but he blamed it on the crisp winter air the fluttered towards their table every time the door opened.

With a sly smile, his older brother picked up where Takeru left off. “You both also have a tendency to fall for girls who are way out of your league.”

“Okay, listen! I only had a crush on Mimi-san for a whole week after that summer, you know? And who could blame me? She was the only girl that had ever spoken to me first and I thought her hat was really cute. I only sent her one letter that she never even got because that was the summer that the ugly Digimon tried to take over the internet. But at least I got over –“

A flick of Takeru’s wrist prohibited Jyou from humiliating himself even further.

“Jyou-senapi, don’t feel bad. Aniki-san had a crush on her until he saw Sora-san in her middle school uniform for the first time.” Dodging his older brother’s fist, Takeru’s laugh drew the attention of the other patrons, including their waiter.

“Excuse me but is there anything that I can do for you?” his tone was stern, implying that the chaotic trio needed to refrain themselves.

“Actually, could you bring me some soy sauce?” Takeru managed between fits of giggles and his brother’s death stare.

In between bites of ramen, their conversation continued.

“Daisuke-kun doesn’t have it as easy as he can make it seem, you know?” Takeru began, the _sluuurp_ of a noodle accenting the end of the sentence. “His parents are rough on him.”

Taking his senpai’s confused stare as a cue to continue, Takeru shed light on his friend’s situation.

“Jun-senpai, his older sister, isn’t expected to do much because she is the oldest. She never does chores or makes dinner or helps Daisuke-kun with his homework. Instead, she talks on the phone all day, reads josei manga, or stalks my brother.” A shudder traced down the rockstar’s spine.

“Because she never does any of the things she is supposed to, Daisuke-kun has to. He has to tutor himself, do the chores, be good at sports, cook dinner, and save both of the worlds. I can’t even count the times he has stretched himself so thin that he becomes sick from lack of sleep or scrawny from lack of food. When V-mon is here, it is better for him, but after everything that the other four have been through, recently, I don’t see how he can go on.”

The noodles, growing cold from the winter air, were the last of Jyou’s worries. _‘How could I have been so self-centered when Daisuke-kun still finds to energy to give his all in anything that he does?’_

“Like you, Jyou-senpai, Daisuke-kun is constantly compared with others. If it isn’t with his sister, it is with Taichi-san.” Yamato continued, “From what I remember, you are constantly battling your brother’s, always aiming for the highest grades, hardest classes, and a job in the same field. Daisuke-kun fights to make his own path as a leader while being criticized by the rest of us for not being like the other goggle-headed loser.”

\--

Mulling over his thought after parting ways with his friends, Jyou barely registers the minuscule snowflakes that dance around in the salty sea air. The sky, a hazy black, exhaled the flakes at an increasing speed, and the people in the streets walked faster.

For once, Jyou did not study the pavement below him. His eyes traced along storefronts, smiling at the holiday decorations. _‘Daisuke-kun would love this,’_ he thought, passing a mannequin dressed in nothing but riceball-themed tightie-whities.

As he reached closer to his apartment, the window of an old sports store caught his eye. The display wasn’t flashy, nor did it adorn multi-color fairy lights, but the pair of goggles nestled on a shelf were worthy of the man’s attention.

Oddly hexagonal in shape, the goggles weren’t intended for swimming. The adjustable leather strap felt warm in Jyou’s hands.

As he watched the clerk wrap his purchase up, it felt as if a small burden had been lifted off of his thin shoulders.

_‘Taichi-san’s old goggles never suited him anyway.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Many things:   
> 1\. NEW READING RECOMMENDATION: On FanFiction, please check out echoWHL's story, In the Spaces: Takari in tri. It is a rewrite of Digimon Adventure Tri that is Takari-centered. I absolutely love the way it is written, and I wanted to share it with you all.  
> 2\. I apologize for the slow updates! My computer charger roke, but Santa should be bringing me one for Christmas. The next chapter will be centered around Sorato!  
> 3\. I am currently writing a short AU about Miyako and Ken. Please go check it out if you are interested!


	10. Of Friendship and Light (and Love)

A soft strum echoed off the poster-covered walls. Dim lighting reflected off of the metallic red guitar, adding another layer of ambiance to the room. It wasn’t the ambiance that worried Taichi to the point of running his lip between his teeth, it was Yamato’s eyes, uncharacteristically void of emotion as he mechanically ran his fingers across the strings.

“Yama, a yen for your thoughts?” the brunette began. He learned long ago that one could not approach Yamato with an air of concern. Unless you were Takeru, you would be greeted with a stoic silence, or in Taichi’s case, a fist in the nose.

His question was met with a singular raised eyebrow, those empty eyes fixated on the sleek body of his instrument. “Don’t you think my thoughts are worth more than one yen, Tai?”

‘ _A joke,’_ Tachi thought, ‘ _Yama must be warming up.’_

“Well, if I am being honest, no.” his voice loud enough to echo off of the walls, melding harshly amid the soft melodies that drifted into Taichi’s ears. His head, rest snugly on Yamato’s pillow, turned to meet his friend’s eyes, lips curling into a smirk Yamato knew all too well.

“Hmm, an interesting thing to say from someone who spends all of his money cheap booze and ramen.”

Taichi’s smirk only widened; Yamato knew him well. “C’mon, man. Tell me what’s going on. You never look so depressed when you play your music.” After a brief pause, he continued, “And quite frankly, I miss your dumb ‘music-makes-me-so-happy-ooh’ smile.”

The soft melodies dissipated as Yamato’s fingers came to halt. His face, unreadable until now, showed only a brief twitch of a grin, then settled into a more serious gaze. “Why are you so worried about me? Shouldn’t you be focusing on your issues with Hikari-imotochan.”

It was a dig, and a dirty one at that. Teeth clenched, Taichi sat up, pulling Yamato’s comforter from its tucked position. _‘He’s just trying to distract me’_ the athlete reminded himself. “You know not to go there, Yamato-san. You also know why I am concerned. Sora-san told me that you haven’t returned any of her phone calls; is everything alright?”

With a quick roll of the eyes and a not-so-silent exhale, Taichi knew Yamato would playing defense in this round. _‘It’s good that I spent my entire childhood on the offense._ ’

“I’m not ignoring her, if that’s what you think. I just – I just don’t know anymore.” With the hand that wasn’t supporting his guitar, he threaded his fingers through his golden locks, his brow furrowed in frustration.

With his head once again rested firmly in a bed that wasn’t his, Taichi let out a soft laugh. “I know what you mean. Ever since… Meicoomon, Hikari-chan hasn’t looked me in my eyes.”

A softness settled in the corners of Yamato’s icy eyes; tension released from his shoulders. “It’s hard to be around her or any of the Chosen, for that matter. Do you have any idea how hard it was for me? To be one half of the being that murdered Meiko-san’s partner? I have the Crest of Friendship for fuck’s sake, Taichi! I should have been advocating _against_ that decision.”

The truth of the rockstar’s words settled Taichi’s lips into a frown, and the only response Yamato received was a soft hum.

Silence came first, then the anger. ‘ _It shouldn’t of happened. We were supposed to protect each other._ ’ A light, feminine voice intermingled with his own, and Taichi shut his eyes as the reminder of his sister’s disappointment rang in his ears.

The guitar sat listlessly in Yamato’s lap, his fingers only gripping it tight enough so it wouldn’t fall. Behind his eyelids burned the images of his friends’ faces, crestfallen with despair. He remembers tasting the blood from his tongue, his teeth latching down in intensity. The brief flicker of hope danced across the eyes of the Chosen, Yamato remembers. His own heart skittering to a stop upon seeing Taichi, a dead man walking.

It was difficult for Yamato to watch the hope dim from his little brother’s eyes and the tears stream down Sora’s cheeks, ashen from caring more about others than herself. It was nearly impossible to comprehend the devastation that settled into Meiko’s heart.

His own heart, aglow with his best friend’s courage and whatever ounce of friendship he could muster, faltered as Omnimon’s sword, bittersweet and double-edged, sliced through _her._

The night terrors leave him with blood in his mouth and screams echoing in his mind. Sora hasn’t looked him in the eye since.

“Yama,” Taichi’s voice, deepened with age, resonates in the minuscule bedroom, “Please stop trying to get under my skin. I’m worried about you, and Sora hasn’t seen you in days. What’s going on?”

“You wouldn’t understand it, Yagami-san! She won’t even look me in the eyes! In a time where we needed love and support from each other, I _murder_ one of our partners! We spent weeks becoming Mochizuki-san’s friend, getting her to trust us and rely on us, and how did we repay her? By destroying the thing she loved most!”

Red coated brown eyes, and Taichi was on his feet in a flash. “Don’t you _dare_ tell me that I don’t understand! The person that I love most in the world hasn’t spoken to me in _months._ You know damn good and well that we made the only choice we could, Ishida-san. As for Sora-san, talk to her. It’s not that difficult. Tell the girl how you feel instead of bottling it up and expecting all of us to read your mind.”

With a gust of wind and the sharp sound of the bedroom door slamming shut, Yamato was alone.

It wasn’t until his strings became slick that he realized he was crying.

* * *

A daisy barrette glinted in the late-afternoon sun; thin fingers worked endless in the moist earth. A laugh bubbled in her throat, but her honey eyes remained focused on the task at hand.

_‘It’s funny,’_ she thinks, _‘how I ended up here of all places.’_

She remembers a childhood filled with her cousin’s hand-me-down jeans, monster killing, and various hats (some pre-puked in, some not). In some ways, she longs for the August heat, for fresh fish and a fridge full of eggs.

As she plants another bulb into the nursery of plants, she laughs outright. A skirt the color of tangerines stopped shy of her knees, a far cry from her old soccer shorts and cleats.

Her phone, silent until now, erupted in noise, startling her from her thoughts. Wiping the soil from her hands onto a nearby towel, her eyes glitted across the called identification.

Butterflies that had laid dormant arose with a fever. “Moshi moshi!” she answered, her cheery voice contrasting the nervousness that resided at the edges of her mind.

At first, the white static of silence greeted her (she idly wondered if her had accidentally pressed ‘speaker’ as the sound was so loud). Tension puckered between her should blades; she could hear him breathing.

“Sora-san? Are you there?” Yamato’s raspy voice replied. Though she didn’t make a comment, she could hear his anxious undertones.

“Um, yeah! I’m here. How are you? I have heard from you in a while.”

The rock star's heart ached not at his girlfriend’s gentle voice, but at the meaning laced between her words. _‘Why haven’t you returned my calls? What have I done to hurt you?’_ he could hear her say.

Swallowing his excuses and insecurities, he managed out a meek “Yeah, I know.”

He missed her, he really did, but how could he give her the words to explain everything? How could he tell the one person (besides Takeru) that he truly cared for that he murdered her friend’s partner because the world depended on it? How could he look a her, his lovely Sora, and feel worthy of her gaze?

“Yamato-san, why are you calling me?”

The formality slapped him across the face, and the hopes of telling her anything dissipated into the wintry air. “S-Sora-chan, please, I –“

“I waited, you know? There were days that I was sure that my ringer must be broken or that I must have forgotten to pay the bill, but then Mimi-san or Taichi-san or _somebody else that wasn’t you_ would call me. Imagine trying to talk to the one person you ever wanted to talk to, only to be met with a prerecorded message. “

“I know, love, I know! And I’m sorry to leave you alone, but I haven’t been able to talk to anyone, especially you. Ever since…that day, after we all lost _so much,_ I couldn’t bear to unload on you. Mochizuki-san had just lost her partner because of me, and I couldn’t look you in the eyes knowing that I hurt someone close to you. Please, Sora-chan, let me come over and explain.”

Static, then her voice, barely above a whisper, sounded “Okay.”

* * *

An icy ocean breeze washed itself over Yagami Taichi, a lone figure in a sea of half-melted snowmen. He was fuming, the burn from a bitter truth still fresh. Glancing down at his watch, he couldn’t remember how long he had been outside. If the numbness in his fingers and toes were any indication, he should have been heading home.

The risk of hypothermia seemed manageable compared to the tangible silence that would seep from underneath his sister’s closed door. A chill settled into the athlete’s bones, his winter coat doing little to prevent the brisk wind from enveloping him.

From his perch on an old. Wooden park bench, he could hear a couple’s laughter. The bright, cheery tones contrasted with the bleak, winter terrain, and Taichi’s shoulders hunched forward, praying that the visitors would leave him to wallow in self-pity.

Frozen snow crunched underneath shoes, but the Chosen of Courage kept his back against the sidewalk; he wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries.

Abruptly, the footfalls stopped, and a gruff voice called out, “Do you remember the last time I beat you up in the snow?”

Though his intruder couldn’t see it, a hint of a grin skirted across Taichi’s face. “Last I remember, you were the one that ended up crying.”

Taking his cue, Yamato broke away from Sora, strolling leisurely towards his best friend.

“Quit moping; I need your help.”

* * *

_‘I can’t believe it’s only five’o’clock,_ ’ Taichi thought, brown eyes trailing the clock tower that stood in the midst of holiday shoppers.

Of all the problems for Yamato to need help with, the brunette never expected any of them to lead to a _mall,_ much less a lingerie store. Sora, an expert at navigating the difficult social situations the two boys put her in, left early with claims of “unfinished work” _._ Both boys knew she was giving them the time together they needed to reconcile.

Looking into a window display of scantily clad women, he felt warmth rush to his cheeks. “What exactly do you need my help with, Yamato-san?” Without the presence of a woman, the pair received more than their share of raised eyebrows and dirty looks.

With cheeks as pink as Mimi’s infamous cow-girl hat, Yamato muttered through gritted teeth.

“Hmm?” the soccer player responded, “I don’t speak Bakemon.”

“I said, ‘I need to get something for your sister.”

“Lingerie? _You_ are going to get _my_ little sister, who is underage, I might add _, lingerie_? What the _fuck_?”

Exasperated, Yamato threw his hand up in the air, defeated. “I didn’t mean it like that, Taichi-san. With how often we all spent the night at your house, she’s practically my little sister too.”

Taichi’s brow, raised in disbelief, remained perched on his forehead. “You might want to tell that to Takeru-kun, then.”

Instead of mustering up some reply, Yamato shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his pants and walked into bubblegum-colored lace. Unwillingly, Taichi followed, ducking to avoid the gaze of an overly-perky store clerk.

It might have been the whiff of cologne (so out of place in a Bombshell-scented world), or it could have been the tuft of brown hair that stuck out above the sea of women, but within the first thirty seconds of entering the threshold, the girl was hot on their heels.

Both boys were aware of how the opposite sex felt about them; Yamato had become accustomed to girls trying to sneak into his dressing room just as Taichi had long since accepted the flirty glances from the sidelines. Though the pair were nothing short of gentlemen (and loved female attention), Taichi wasn’t in the mood to explain that he was helping his rock star friend shop for his younger sister.

“Hi, there! How can I help you today?”

Temporarily blinded from the reflection of the employee’s lip gloss, Yamato didn’t register the slip of lace entangled in his fingertips, distracted by trying to make out the employee’s name tag.

“Uh, we were just…looking.” Only a second too late did he realize how idiotic his response was. _‘Just looking? Way to sound like an absolute sociopath.’_

Her sapphire eyes gave Yamato a once over, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. He wanted to vomit. “It’s not what you think! It’s, uh, for my sister.”

The employee’s perfectly manicured eyebrows shot up, and with a swift turn of her heel, she disappeared from sight, a flowery sent trailing behind her. The only sound the blonde could hear over the pumping of his blood was Taichi’s rambunctious laughter.

“You sounded like an absolute creep! What teenager buys a thong for his _sister_?”

Embarrassed, Yamato threw his hands up in defeat. “I have no clue what to get her, Taichi-san, and I’ve known her my whole life. The last time I actually talked to her, she was, like, ten, and I doubt she still likes _Hello Kitty_.”

The corners of the brunette’s eyes softened as he lead the disgruntled teen out of the store. “Listen, man, I’m sure you’ll find something. After all, Hikari-chan would love anything her ‘Aniki-san’ gave her.”

Yamato chuckled, remembering the childhood nickname Taichi’s sister has once given him. At the time, it was fitting; he and Takeru had spent nearly every weekend at the Yagami residence playing _Mario Kart 64_ and walking down to the corner store for mochi.

The pair walked comfortably now, window-shopping and reminiscing. “I though she grew out of that.” the rock star mused aloud. When his little brother returned to Odaiba and the second generation took reigns of the next adventure, Yamato didn’t returned to the Yagami’s apartment until their quest to travel the world. Somewhere in the midst of all of that, Hikari reverted back to her typical politeness, but spoke to him only if he initiated the conversation (which thus far, hadn’t happened.)

Taichi snorted, “Of course not. Whenever mom or dad ever ask about you guys, Hikari-chan is the first to say ‘ _Oh, Aniki-san this,_ ’ and _‘Aniki-san that.’_ The only thing that has changed is that she blushes after Takeru-kun speaks.”

A memory, buried long ago by teen-aged responsibilities and old home work assignments, resurfaced. It was the midst of summer, just a year after the defeat of Apocolymon. The Chosen were gathered by the seashore, some sun-bathing (mainly Mimi), some swimming (mainly Sora), and the others playing in the sand. While Koushirou pounded away at his laptop and Jou nervously reapplied sunscreen, the two sets of siblings were engaged in an intense competition of “Which Team Can Build The Best Sand Castle Ever In The Whole World”. Yamato remembers Takeru sticking out his tongue at him as the younger brother hurriedly claimed Taichi as his partner, leaving himself with Hikari.

Her little hand nervously gripped his own, and leaned down to whisper something encouraging in her ear. The castle must have taken them hours to complete, as he remembers standing up against a twilight-tinted sky to admire their hard work. Taichi and Takeru had long since abandoned their sand mounds, an oblong lump in the ground being the only indicated they were ever there.

He didn’t care; the effort was worth the proud smile that illuminated Hikari’s face. “You know what would make this the best sand castle ever in the whole world, Aniki-san?”

“Hmm?”

“A big seashell! It could go right there in the middle so that Princess Ariel can look at it every day!”

Yamato remembers wanting to go home; the day had been hot, and he was ready to crawl in bed. But something about the excited tug on his hand made him reconsider. As the rest of the crew began to pack up and go their separate ways, Hikari and Yamato stayed hunched over yellow grains, fingers searching for ‘the one’.

Sighing, he threw one last shell over his should, and rose to leave. “Aniki-san, wait!” her squeal stopping the young boy in his tracks. Retrieving the discarded shell from the sand, she held up her find to the dimming sunlight. The shell was ugly by anyone’s standards; murky spots of discoloration littered the body, the large section missing just along the edge. He hoped the surprise on his face wasn’t evident when she told him how perfect it was and that she was so happy he found it.

His present silence must have unnerved Taichi as an elbow in the ribs stirred him from his daydream. “You good there, Yamato-san?’

Scanning the walkway of shops for any inspiration, his azure eyes settled on a door nestled in the far corner. “C’mon, I have an idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I apologize for the late update. My laptop broke, so I had to get another. Just as I did that, I was forced to leave college because of COVID-19. I made this chapter longer than the rest for you!  
> As always, please review! I love to talk with you guys.


	11. Of Reliable Knowledge and Friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you so much for all of the reviews! I reply to every single (and I reread them while writing the chapters so that I can listen to your opinions and critiques!)

A waft of strawberry-scented shampoo washed over the girl’s trembling torso, doing little to calm her nerves. She could feel the sheen of sweat that encapsulated her lithe body; her nails, ragged from anxiety, ripped at her arms. Her lungs burned, and Hikari wondered if had even remembered to breathe.

In the early days of being a Chosen, she often marveled at the powers of the Crests; how one attribute could so perfectly fit someone that it manipulated the body of their partner to new levels. Besides, she always had loved angels.

Wisdom, however, comes with age, and the brunette had begun to feel cheated as of late. Gennai (old, withered, _familiar_ ) had fooled them as children, dangling the tags in front of their sparkling eyes like a butcher hung meat in the window.

Greedily, they accepted the power, unbeknownst the repercussions of such. At the time, she would have done anything to slow the wrath of Vamdemon and catching the pink necklace her brother threw at her seemed easy enough.

Her nightmares used to center around a barren beach, surrounded by water the color of ink and a voice that scratched from the furthest corner of her mind. She no longer dreamed of Meiccomon, but of her brother, reliving the hot-iron pain of his death, the warm rising to her throat, and the course, desert sand beneath her kneecaps. Screams echoed across the flat plains, but they no longer belonged to her, but to Meiko. In her worst dreams, the sky would darken, yielding a creature from the furthest depths of hell: Ordinemon. Waking up to sweat and fear and the sound of one soul being ripped in two, the image of her brother haunts her.

_‘How could the Chosen of Light hold so much darkness?’_

Somewhere inside of her, she recognizes that she is to blame for Ordinemon’s creation, and therefore her demise. Odaiba was in ruins, and they were again thrust into the digitized land where it was summer no longer. She lost Tailmon first, every scratch behind the ears, every battle that they one, and every peaceful afternoon they spent basking in each other’s company wiped from her memory. When the cracked, ruined land swallowed Taichi – her _Onii-chan_ – up whole, her fragile being broke.

As a child of the Light, you become accustomed to the voices that borrow your body, leaving little left for you in their wake. She remembers the dark waves lapping at her school shoes, and then nothing.

Beneath her bedroom door, the illumination of the television blended into a technicolor haze. Her eyes flickered briefly at the alarm clock (disorienting digital) and knew that only her brother could be up at this hour.

Sweat glistening form her forehead and eyes rosy from tears, her mismatched socks obscuring the sound of her footfalls. Her door, worn from a childhood well-lived, squeaked against its hinges.

A tuft of brunette hair, not unlike her own, was visible from the top of the couch, back upright as he focused on reruns of

Though she knew he had heard her creep soundlessly down the hall, he did not turn. The collar of her _Peko-chan_ night shirt was damp with heat, and she knew her brother was still giving her the space she needed. Her pulse sped up with anxiety, making the characters on her pajamas dance. A metallic taste seeped into her mouth, her teeth sunken into the flesh of her bottom lip.

She tried with all her might to stifle her noises, but air tangled in the back of her throat, and whether or not it was based on instinct, her brother’s eyes were trailed on her.

Mid-trek in her quest for water, the younger Yagami stopped in her tracks, tears staining her socks. Her eyes trailed the linoleum, knowing that if she looked up, the pent-up anger would dissipate.

Warm hands held her shoulders, and Hikari flinched; she hadn’t heard the groan of the couch cushions.

He smelled of sunscreen and sweat and all things summer, and she has missed him _so_ much. Pitiful, choked sobs sputtered out, clouding her vision with tears; her _Peko-chan_ was drowning.

For once, he did not offer her words, but instead, guided her to the couch. An old afghan was wrapped around her convulsing shoulders, and she found herself alone. Unfocused eyes rested near the warm glow of the television, though the program was either unfamiliar or in a different language. Her heart heaved.

A mug (the pink one that he gifted her for her tenth birthday) was wrapped in her cool fingers, the warmth seeping through its ceramic body, calming the young girl down considerably. Picking the side of the blanket closest to him, Taichi lowered himself onto the couch, curling his younger sister to his side.

His lips feathered across her mussed locks, and her salty tears stained his favorite tournament shirt, and for the first time in months, Hikari felt peace.

* * *

The city lights of Odaiba filtered past Iori’s curtains and danced across the backs of his eyelids. His mind did not allow him dreams or nightmares, coating his subconscious in darkness.

Youthful thoughts had long since been torn from him, replaced with broken ribs, ripped flesh, and malevolent Digimon. Three months could change everything.

His stay in the hospital’s trauma unit was lengthy, his small stature hindering a full recovery. Wrinkles rested around his mother’s eyelids. Her frail fingers hung listlessly around her third coffee of the day, but the caffeine did little to energize her.

Iori, her baby boy, was dying, and all she could do was wait.

Several weeks later, his stay at the hospital ended with a flurry of signatures, some balloons, and a silent ride back home. His eyes had once sparkled with mirth, she remembered, but now they stared blankly ahead, refusing to focus.

Fumiko guided his (small, broken) body up the stairs of their apartment complex, only faltering after passing the door of his dear, lilac-haired friend.

Though summer had not yet ended, a warm breeze encased the pair as Iori’s mother unlocked their apartment door. Purple shadows rested underneath his green eyes, complimenting the swollen, irritated stitches that sewed his cheek together.

He hadn’t cried, she noticed.

His feet led him to the old, worn armchair that was nestled between the wall and a bookshelf. The frayed corduroy smelled faintly of pipe tobacco and peppermint, and only then did Iori remember to look for his grandfather. It had not bothered him that the older man did not greet him at the hospital; at the tender age of twelve, Iori resembled his father greatly, and losing Hiroki once was all his grandfather could take.

It was only then that he noticed the sleek, maple wood, a slim stick of jasmine incense simmering in the afternoon heat. Chikara Hida smiled broadly, his weathered features incased in a glass frame. Green eyes widen in realization: he was staring at his grandfather’s _shrine_.

Heaving, the spoonfuls of miso soup he was able to stomach pelt his knees with force. He feels a pair of hands on him and someone screaming, but his vision tunneled.

_‘Sofu-san, forgive me for abandoning you. Forgive me, please! I am so sorry I was not there for you.’_

Iori still could not bring himself to look at the shrine, and he didn’t believe he would ever have the strength to. He would never have the Courage that Taichi possessed, so Iori retreated further into himself.

After his falling out with Miyako, the youngest Chosen was left mull over his problems alone, ignoring any rouge advice his mother would offer. The young boy had stood in the face of certain death too many times to exert energy over something so trivial. Scrolling through his messages on his D-Terminal, his thumb hovers over Yamato’s message. _‘I nearly forgot about him.’_

True to his personality, Yamato’s message was brief and held little to no important information.

**From: Ishida Yamato**

**To: Everyone**

**Body: I like music and ramen. That’s about it.**

Forcing his feet into a pair of socks, Iori uncharacteristically rolled his eyes. Despite almost being a teenager, his mother felt uncomfortable with him attending any of his senpai’s concerts, claiming that the hoards of fan girls would damage his hearing.

His mother was out for the evening, or so the note taped to the kitchen counter said. Iori planned to get the most out of his rare moment of freedom. Slipping on his shoes, the middle-schooler grabbed and handle of wadded bills from his teddy-bear cookie jar and headed out the door.

Since becoming a Chosen, Iori rarely had to travel anywhere alone. Typically, Miyako or Takeru would invite him out on little excursions; he rarely had any reason to go anywhere alone. With Miyako mad at him, and Takeru’s ability to read right through his lies, the youngest Chosen knew it was safest to go alone.

The long walk to the shopping district gave Iori time to think. In truth, Yamato scared him. The rock star normally stuck within the confines of his band mates or the original Chosen. The pair seemingly has nothing in common with both parties being on opposite ends of the popularity spectrum.

_‘I suppose I could ask Taichi-senpai for his advice.’_ He quickly dismissed the thought, remembering how odd the former had been acting.

Earlier that week, the leader knocked on his front door, politely bowing to his mother before taking off his shoes. The moment, Iori heard Taichi’s deep baritone voice, he anxiously shot out of bed. _‘Are there more Digimon? Do we have to go back?’_

Opening the door to his bedroom, he was met with Taichi’s grin. “Hey, Iori-san. Sorry to bother you and all, but I was wondering if I could take a picture of you?” Iori raised a singular eyebrow. ‘ _This is why he knocked on my door at eight in the morning?’_

“Uh, sure.” No sooner had the words left his mouth, a bright flash temportarily blinded him. He didn’t even remember to smile. Without checking the viewfinder for the final product, Taichi was shoving the camera into the pouch that sat across his shoulders. “Thanks for your help! I’ll catch up with you later.”

Iori’s thoughts returning to the present, his scuffed sneakers dragged across the pavement and halted to a stop. He had arrived.

Winter’s chill seeped through his coat causing goose flesh to prick along his arms. It had been some time since he could feel his fingers. Passing several storefronts, Iori sighed in annoyance. ‘ _What do I get someone that I talked to a grand total of one time?’_

Aside from both having a Digimon, and a vague relationship to Takeru, the boys didn’t have much in common. _‘Unless..’_ With a gasp, he stumbles over a rouge shoelace.

A missing parent! The young boy strains to remember passing conversations with his Jogress partner, where the both talked about the pain of being raised by a single mother. _‘But what about Yamato, who wasn’t raised with a mother at all?’_

Picking up speed, his short tresses danced through the icy breeze. He knew exactly what to get his senpai.

* * *

White knuckles clashed tightly around a plastic shopping bag. Dragging his feet up several flights of stairs, Iori couldn’t help to feel the slightest bit guilty. The sun disappeared from view a while ago, and the icy clutches of a Japanese December settled around his small frame.

Toeing his front door open, the smell on ongiri enveloped him, worsening the knot in his stomach.

“Do you have any idea how worried I was about you?” Wiping her hands on her apron, Fumiko turned towards her only son. He stood in the hallway; shoes tightly laced around his feet with a shopping bag dangling idly at his side.

“I forgot to call, Oka-san. Please forgive me.” His bow, clumsy as the boy had yet to adjust to his lengthening legs, did little to ease the woman’s worry.

“I didn’t even know you left! You could have at least written a note, _musuko._ ”

Tears gathered in his emerald eyes. Formalities were only used when his mother was truly disappointed. Loosening his grip, the bag fell to his feet. “Gomen'nasai, Oka-san. Please, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just got distracted.”

“I can’t lose you, too, Iori!” his mother yelled, her frustration making itself apparent. Tears flowing freely, the (broken, helpless) boy sank to his knees. Fumiko’s eyes softened.

Lowering herself to the ground, her warm arms did little to soothe the sobs that wracked her son’s body. “Please, baby.” her voice no more than a whisper, “Don’t leave me.”

The pair sat huddled in their home’s entrance, salty tears mingling with other’s. A waft of charred food stirred them from their thoughts, and Iori released a weak laugh. “Oka-san, I think you burnt dinner.”

His comment was met with a watery grin, and the pads of his mother’s thumbs brushed his remaining tears away. “There are more important things.”

Muscles straining, Fumiko busied herself with scraping the pans clean of any evidence of dinner, and dialed the number to a local take-out restaurant. Finally toeing off his sneakers, the brunette placed his bag on his bed before returning to the living room.

“So, what had you out so late, anyway?” his mother asked, looking up from the menu nestled in her hands.

Sitting at the kitchen counter, Iori debating whether to tell the truth. _‘It’s better to tell the truth than to tell a lie, Mago-san.’_ He remembers the underwater chamber, and the lengths he went to protect his friends. Mostly, he remembers his grandfather’s disappointment.

“It was for Secret Santa. This is probably the last Christmas that the twelve of us will be together, and we wanted to make it special. I didn’t mean to take so long, but I honestly had no idea what to get my person.”

The soft echo of the doorbell momentarily distracted his mother, but after she paid the delivery-girl, she continued. “I thought you were all so close. Who’d you get that stumped you so bad?”

“I pulled Ishida-san, and I can’t remember the last time ewe had a decent conversation. We may all spend most of our time together, but it’s not always by choice.”

Plating their food, his mother hummed in thought. “Is that Takeru-kun’s rock star brother? Or is Ishida-san the athlete?”

“He’s the rock star, I guess, but I promise he is kind. Not only is he five years older than me, he was established in our group long before I came along.”

“Well, how did your shopping trip go? Did you find anything?”

Pushing away from the countered, his socked feet pattered down the hall. Returning shortly, white bag in tow, he lifted a small object from its depths. “I’m sorry I came home so late, but it took me so long to finally decide on this.”

Carefully handling the fragile gift, his mother lifted a singular eyebrow in question.

Embarrassment flushed his cheeks, and Iori rushed to explain. “At first, I thought we didn’t have anything in common. I mean, he is about to apply for university, and I just started middle school. But, whenever I first became friends with Takeru-san, he told me about his parents’ divorce. While he stayed with his mother, Yamato had to move in with his father, and because his mom works late hours, he hardly gets to see her. It’s almost like he doesn’t have a mother at all.”

He paused to take a few bites (it would be a shame to waste good food, after all). “And then I realized that we both grew up without a parent, and even though we probably will never be close friends, I hope he can appreciate the thought.”

Fumiko gave her son a warm smile, and later that night, as Iori slept soundly underneath his covers, she knelt at her father-in-law’s shrine and thanked him for raising his grandson to have a heart so full of love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Iori is a very difficult character to write, as he tends to be very introspective. I apologize if he is out of character. What do you think of Hikari forgiving Taichi? What does Taichi have up his sleeve? What should Iori get Yamato?


	12. Of Knowledge and Sincerity

Sweat was something Koushiro tried to avoid. It gathered in his palms and made it difficult for his fingers to glide across a keyboard. He hated the sticky feeling that gathered at the base of his neck and the clammy feeling that followed.

Not long after his _wonderful_ (i.e. horrible, sweaty) summer outdoors, he left the soccer club in lieu of honing his technological gifts. Taichi’s disappointment did little to damper the joy Koushiro felt in his air-conditioned office in the heart of Odaiba.

After Ordinemon’s chaos, the red head had taken a step back from his dealings within the Digital World. He was tired; they all were. Watching the familiar light dissolve in Tentomon’s eyes ripped at the edges of his soul. He would wake up, sweat accumulated on his forehead, and promise that he would make more time for his partner.

Eventually, he knew that the world of monsters and wonder and death would draw him back. It always did.

But for now, he cut back on the hours he spent working and made a more conscious effort to spend time with those that were most important to him.

Tentomon snug in his lap, the boy genius idly surfed the internet, searching across sixteen different tabs for advice.

Koushiro felt strange not having the answer. He could decipher Digicode and speak two other languages, but couldn’t buy a girl a gift? Pathetic. Typically, whenever he was faced with a problem regarding his emotions or communication, he would turn to Taichi or Miyako, his closet friends.

Perspiration beaded at the base of his hairline at the thought of asking Miyako for advice concerning Mimi. All the girls in their group were practically sisters with the amount of time they spend together. Telling Miyako, he decided, would be a mistake.

Apparently, searching the internet for “gifts to give a girl you like without her figuring out you like her” was a mistake, too.

Sifting through magazine articles and websites that would surely give his computer a virus, Koushiro leaned back into his chair with a sigh, taking care not to jostle his sleeping partner.

He tried to fight his budding crush on Mimi. She was known to be overbearing, ditching logic in favor of allowing her emotions to rule her. Koushiro was a simple man: all situations are black-and-white. Or, they were until a bubbly girl with a hat as big as her personality blundered through a maze all those years ago.

When asked to describe people in color, most would compare Mimi to a sakura blossom, but Koushiro disagreed. Mimi was the first thing in his life to be gray.

The smell of miso soup lured the young boy from his perch, gently shaking Tentomon awake.

“Koushiro-han, is it time to eat?”

His human counterpart chuckled. “I think you’ve been spending too much time with a certain orange dinosaur.”

Shutting down his computer, a slight _ping_ from across the room diverted his attention. Checking through his most recent alerts, his heart lulled to a halt.

**Incoming text: Tachikawa Mimi**

_‘Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh go-’_

“Koushiro-kun, time for dinner, sweetie.” His mother’s voice called out to him.

He felt the warmth of his face and knew he couldn’t face his mother like this. She was a woman, after all, and would pry the information from him eventually. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his mother; he loved her with all of his heart. She had a horrible habit of becoming overexcited about her son _socializing_ and _having friends,_ and once she caught wind of his predicament, she would be dialing Mimi’s number herself.

It wasn’t unusual for Mimi to text him. All of the Chosen had a massive group chat with the entire group, but it had been proven to be inefficient for discussing personal matters. More often than not, Mimi would enthusiastically message each of her friends individually, pestering them with odd questions or pictures that she found funny. Initially, Koushiro wasn’t sure how to respond to the attention. Her ramblings were met with one-word replies, her pictures greeted with a single emoji.

Then he yelled at her. In his office, in front of their friends, he belittled her. The messages lulled to a stop.

It hurt Koushiro more than he liked to admit. But then she silently appeared at his office door, bringing Oolong tea and warm meals, the personification of sunshine. His hands has remained clammy since.

“Just open it.” Tentomon’s voice startled Koushiro out of his trance. Hastily clicking on the notification (not because his Digimon told him too, but because he was a gentleman that wouldn’t leave his friend waiting for a response thank you very much), his fingers slipped across his screen. Sweat had accumulated on his fingertips, irking the sixteen-year-old.

**Mimi: hey, wats ur opinion on toe socks??**

**Koushiro: I’m impartial. Did you need anything else?**

**Mimi: ur no fun** **☹ . and also, i was wondering wat ur up to?**

_‘Dear gods, her messages are almost as difficult to decipher as Daisuke's handwriting.’_

Judging by the late afternoon sunlight that sifted through his blinds, Koushiro wagered his options. The neat stack of completed schoolwork offered no lame excuse, but his mother had dinner waiting for him. He didn’t want to leave his parents waiting.

**Koushiro: About to eat dinner with my family. Is something the matter?**

**Mimi: im just having truble wif my secret santa n i think u cud help** **😊 if ur busy, that’s fine. i cud probably ask sora or sum1!**

The red-haired boy had never been one to think on his feet, that was Taichi’s specialty. He preferred careful calculations to spontaneity, but adrenaline reacted strangely with male hormones. Shouting something around his bedroom door, he quickly returned to his cell phone.

**Koushiro: If you’d like, you could come over for dinner. We could discuss whatever you need to talk about afterwards.**

“Koushiro-han, are coming down with an illness? Your face is so red!” Tentomon chimed. The insect-like partner nudged his friend’s shoulder in an attempt to lay him down.

“Uh- um, I’m fine!” He rubbed his hands on his khakis.

“Then why is it that every time you talk with Mimi-san, you become sick?” concerned etched in his voice.

Knuckles rapped lightly at his door, followed by the hinges creaking open. “Koushiro-kun,” his mother’s head peered from the doorway, “Will Mimi-san be joining us?”

His ears grew hot, and beads of perspiration gathered at his collar. “Um, I’m not sure yet. She hasn’t responded.” A knowing smile twitched at the edges of his mother’s mouth. If her son’s inability to meet her eyes was any indication, the young girl with the pink hat meant a great deal more than he was letting on.

At the alert of an incoming message, she slipped out of his open door, setting the table for one more.

**Mimi: I’ll be rite ovr!**

* * *

True to her Mimi-fashion, she arrived with a flair. Within twenty minutes of sending Koushiro her message, she was grinning up at him from the other side of his threshold.

“Hey, Koushiro-kun! Thank you so much for inviting me over,” she said, gently removing her shoes.

“Um, of course, Mimi-san.” His voice came out in a whisper, but either his companion didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him, as by the time he looked up, she was already in the kitchen with his mother.

“Mimi-san,” Koushiro’s mother greeted “it’s so nice to see you again! Koushiro-kun, how come you never told me how cute she’s gotten?”

As his mother’s well-placed (and _obvious_ ) wink reduced the teenager to a bumbling mess, Mimi took the compliment in stride. “You are too kind! Thank you for allowing me to come over on such short notice.”

“Oh,” his father interjected, “you’re welcome here anytime.”

Smiling brightly, Mimi tied back her hair with an offer to help his mother finish cooking. “I just adore cooking,” she explained, washing her hands in the kitchen sink. “When I lived in the states, our apartment had a huge kitchen area. My mom had no idea how to cook, so I bought a cooking book and learned all the recipes myself. Now that we moved back, we practically only eat take out.”

Situating himself at the counter (she was _his_ guest, after all), Koushiro watched intently as the two women chattered among themselves, finishing up the last touches of dinner through their joint effort.

The inclusion of a perky teenage girl at the family table proved difficult with the limited space, but with some knee-knocking and a little elbow-grazing later, they were able to make it work. With a smile that rivaled the sun, Mimi (and his mother, of course) presented grill fish on top of a bed of fresh rice.

“Mimi-san, I didn’t know that you could cook.” His father spoke up. To his left, Tentomon hummed in appreciation.

Koushiro’s agreement was evident in his “Koushiro-kun, you could at least compliment the chef before you nearly choke yourself,” his mother stage-whispered, giggling as his knees jerked up to rattle the table.

Trying to force the rice down his throat, the Chosen of Knowledge struggled to breathe. It was hard enough to eat when he felt the pressure of Mimi’s thigh against his own. _‘Damn this small table.’_

“Koushiro-kun gets embarrassed because I got all cute while I was away.” Her shit-eating grin was enough to make the red-haired boy actually choke. Tentomon’s meager attempts at patting his back proved futile as Mimi’s elbow grazed Koushiro’s in jest.

Between coughs and sputters, the boy tried in vain to explain himself, but his attempts fell upon deaf ears. Dinner couldn’t end soon enough.

However, once himself and the object of his affections were situated in his childhood bedroom, he begged whichever deities he could think of for mercy. Immediately upon entering his room, Mimi quickly made herself a home on top of his comforter, patting the area beside her for Tentomon to rest. Settling into his desk chair, he turned to the girl, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“You know, Kou-kun,” she began, idly stroking his Digimon’s wings, “I only tease you because you get so flustered.”

The nickname, courtesy of Mimi’s middle school years being spent across the ocean, initially embarrassed him. Over the past few months, however, he had grown to accept it as part of her Western upbringing. The flush that rose to his cheeks has nothing to do with the familiarity, not at all.

“Ah, um, well, I’m sorry.”

“You’re fine! Besides, you’re cute when you blush!” Her giggle closed any room to reply. “Anyway, I’m sorry for crashing your dinner tonight. I just have no idea what to get my Secret Santa.”

Behind his carefully constructed mask of concentration, Koushiro silently slowed his breathing and gathered himself. _‘I can grow accustomed to a nickname,’_ he thought _‘but I will never get used to her flirtatious attitude.’_

“The most forward approach would be if you told me directly who you chose. However, you insist on the reveal being a surprise, so I suppose that would be out of the question. Could you describe what is troubling you thus far?” Shifting in her spot, a head of light brown hair swayed as she positioned the bug-like creature into her lap. Impatiently tapping the open space beside her, Koushiro had no choice but to sit cross-legged beside her.

“There, it’s much easier to talk like this,” tones of triumph laced in her voice. Koushiro had never been this close to girl, much less one he felt _feelings_ for. “The person I pulled is, like, my exact opposite. To be completely honest, I’m not sure I’ve even held a conversation with this person, much less gotten them a gift,” her finger rested against her bottom lip in thought. “The only hint I will give you is that they are a boy.”

“Well, Mimi-san, that doesn’t really narrow it down.”

Mimi shook her head in disbelief, careful to not disturb the sleeping Tentomon in her lap. “That’s the point! You aren’t supposed to figure it out, just give me a vague idea of things this person might like.”

Pondering his own predicament with his Secret Santa, Koushiro struck a deal. “If you help me with mine, I’ll help you with yours. Deal?”

Blinding him with a toothy grin, Mimi stuck out her hand. “Let’s shake on it.” And if she noticed the sheen of sweat that had gathered on his palm, she made no comment.

Talking into the night, their flow of conversation wavered only when Koushiro’s mom gently urged the girl home. “It was a pleasure to have you over, Mimi-san. Please, come again, and teach me some of your recipes.”

“Anytime, Izumi-san! As long as Kou-kun will have me back, that is.”

“Oh, that shouldn’t be a problem. He _adores_ you.”

Koushiro begged the gods above for death. Seeing his guest to the door, he silently watched as she put on her shoes. “Uh,” he began, hand resting on the nape of his neck, “thank you, um, for everything. Dinner was really nice, and you really helped me figure out everything.”

Looking up, she gave him a half grin, “Well, whoever you have will be very luck, Kou-kun. You put so much though into all that you do.” Her voice was so soft, he had to strain to hear her.

The boy in question felt his eyes grow wide, and only then did Mimi realize her slip-up. “Uh, it’s getting dark, I have to go.” Flashing her host a peace sign, the girl slipped out the door quickly, shutting it quietly behind her.

His erratic heartbeat held in place for a moment, his brain struggling to process the situation. Later that night, he dreamt of pink hats and hazel eyes _(and a pair of lips much too close to his own_ ). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I believe the next chapter will be the finale. Come next month, I will have been writing this story for a year, the longest time I have ever stuck with a piece of writing. Please, if you have any critiques at all, let me know. I thrive off interaction (considering lock down has me all by myself).  
> Also, I feel that Mimi would totally embrace "text-speak" and would be the type to use "LOL" in real life.


End file.
